Wendigo
by dazzleCROWNS
Summary: Rogue's been kicked around foster homes for the last seventeen years of her life. Sentenced to New York after running away, her life becomes even more hectic. Take for example, the stalker with red eyes and that everyone she gets close to dies. AU ROMY
1. Prologue: Down South

A.N./ Hello! Welcome to the first fanfiction of moi, dazzleCROWNS. I've been sitting on this idea ever since a friend requested for me to re-write Twilight (we got into an argument; I said that I hated it like a mf and she was all "well then re-write it! Make it better!").

I hated the idea of using Bella and Edward, so I added a spin on things by adding everyone's favorite Southerners! And after I did that...it began to slip further and further from the Twilight plot...I don't even think you guys would have caught on unless I mentioned it... So that means it's safe for all you fellow Twilight-haters to read. And I hope it's enjoyable for all the ROMY fans out there...I couldn't resist :)

NOTE: Instead of using Rogue's codename, I stuck to her real-name, given in both the new comic and (slightly?) the movie-verse: Anna-Marie. The name seemed to fit more in this AU, partly because of her whole no-mutant thing and the fact that she does, in fact, hail from the South, land of all the Mary-Beths and Louisiana-Dallases. Don't worry, though. She may not be named "Rogue" off the bat, but it's still the spunky, angry chick we know from X-Men: Evo with a little dash of the flirty Rogue from X-men: TAS.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Twilight, it would involve tons of domestic violence, all directed at Bella. I can't even _imagine_ owning X-Men, that's how far-off I am from the possibility.

Without further ado, I give you the prologue for _Wendigo!_

_**PROLOGUE:**_

D o w n S o u t h 

I guess I'm what you'd call a "problem child."

My name is Anna-Marie. I don't know my last name; I don't think that I've ever had one. I think I was born in Mississippi, since I'd been found there and lived there all my life. When I was two months old, they found me in a trash can at the local grocery store's public toilet. Someone had apparently tried to throw me away.

The people who found me turned me in to the CPA and I was put in a foster home within weeks. I was never truly considered one of them, one of the Johnstons, but then again, I never really wanted to be. Who wants to be the youngest in a family of nine children? I guess that they all hated me for not wanting to be like them, but I soon got over a life without any real friends.

I was six when I found out that the Mrs was some kind of a prostitute, trying to make ends meet for her crack addiction and the absence of her jailed boyfriend. I was nine when she locked me in a dog cage for trying to throw out her drugs. After that incident, though, something changed. From that moment onwards, I had a friend.

Merry-Lewis was the second-oldest of the nine, and the only one that I could imagine liking. She had a sensible head on her shoulders. She never went out partying, never did drugs, always returned home straight after school and she was the one who really cared for the rest of us. The girl began to try teaching me, said I was the only one she thought had the ability and the interest to learn. She said that I could be anything I wanted when I grew up, like a scientist or a doctor or even the president. She told me that she believed I could change the world, that I could break free of that dump and make something of myself.

Nobody, not even my nice teacher Mrs. Colwen, had _ever _said something like that to me.

The longer I spent with Merry-Lewis, the more I began to love her. She was like the big sister I never had, sometimes filling the gap of a mother to me even though she was only a few years older than me. I aspired to be _just like _her when I would someday grow up, and I thought that I really could fulfill the aspirations dancing around in my head with Merry-Lewis' help. She became my friend, sister, mother, teacher and..._family. _For the first time, I had what was so elusive to me.

I really did love her. Until she died.

I was twelve. I'd just gotten home from school, wanting to tell her all about what I learned and how the teacher praised me when I got a good grade on a science test. Even now, I can remember _exactly _what I'd answered, what the questions were, my exact percentage score. I got a 96. But that ceased to matter when I saw the police cars parked outside of the crowded mobile home. The paramedics pronounced her dead on site, lifting her battered and broken body from the floor of the living room and hauling it off, along with the lightly damaged form of Mrs. Johnston.

Her latest in a string of boyfriends blamed her for not "delivering" all of the money she'd earned selling herself. And he took it out on whoever was in the house at the time. When the whore came back and saw Merry-Lewis bleeding on the floor, she called the cops, taking a few beatings herself before they actually arrived...and the guy bolted.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze at the social worker's office, a place that I'd come to know even better than the collection of places I'd be shunted off too.

From that moment on, I didn't stay long with anybody. Most of them were all the same—just the same kind of festering familial sore as the Johnstons. Considering my background, though, I still managed to stay in high school. I got average grades, only balanced out by my near-perfect test scores since I never turned in my homework. I stopped doing _that_ ever since my third guardian decided that girls weren't supposed to learn and threw all of my books away.

I learned that it was easier to cope with the mess if I learned to ignore it.

I never had any kind of attachment to my always changing "homes," always afraid to get close to people. And then I noticed it.

Every time I was sent to a new home, something bad happened.

The first time, it was an elderly couple who needed a little gopher to order around and do their work as they spent the rest of their lives living on retirement. After a particularly nasty argument with the soggy bitch of the house, she'd gotten into a car wreck. I thought nothing of it, until it happened four more times, to four different people, in four different houses I'd been adopted to.

I didn't have any real friends in the public school I went to; we were all just "acquaintances." I didn't really have the chance at closeness to anybody because most of the time my foster parents refused to allow me to have any friends over. Even if they had, my new discovery had sealed my fate, further impeding any of the rare passes made at me by boys or the attempts to be friendly.

This was until a crush I had on a guy named Bobby turned into something much deeper. He was my first boyfriend, my first tangible kind-of relationship to _anybody _since Merry-Lewis. I often sneaked out of the house I was deposited in to meet him secretly, late at night, to go on "dates" that usually took place at the nearest McDonalds.

We never did anything other than the occasional hand-hold or hesitant kissing; Bobby seemed to understand my need to go slow. He was the first person to really know where I came from, what kind of background I had. He understood. At least, I thought he did.

Robert Drake was a senior at Tupelo Public High school when I was in the ninth grade. I guess he felt left out when he listened to the other guys on the football team talking about their "scores" with the slutty cheerleaders, and we began to drift further and further apart.

Our late-night meetings were suddenly full of him trying to pull a "move" on me; he tried to bring me to his house a lot in hopes of "scoring" with _me_, the Untouchable, Unapproachable Anna M. Apparently, I had some kind reputation, and any guy who had sex with me would be seen as a "master." Well, at least that was what he's mumbled hurriedly as his explanation for having sex with Jean Gray, cheer-leading captain and holder of the title of the Most Perfect Girl on Earth.

I was torn, my heart ripped to shreds right in front of my eyes as Bobby removed his hand from my chest and broke away from me. I hated him. I hated him like I'd never hated anyone in my life before. He'd been pretending; that entire thing that I though we shared was all an _act_. I hated liars. And I hated Robert Drake.

A few weeks later, he was killed in a botched burglary attempt. Shot clean through the head. I figured, like I had for everyone else who I knew died, that I'd somehow been the cause of it. I knew that he probably didn't deserve to die, that cheating on a girl that nobody seemed to want wasn't a crime that warranted death.

But this time, I didn't care.

I boosted five hundred dollars from the Munroe's house and ran off. I didn't get very far; the next morning I was back at the Social Workers' office. My foster parents packed my things neatly into my purple school bag immediately after finding out who'd taken their money and relinquished their guardianship over me. I was shipped off to New York because no potential foster homes in the state of Mississippi were particularly willing to take in a sixteen-almost-seventeen year old _problem child_.

I hated it, at first. The feeling of being totally unwanted was crushing, and hard to disregard. It had always been difficult to pretend not to give a damn, but this time it seemed impossible. I stuck at it, though, knowing that the _second _I turned eighteen I would be free of all this, free to do whatever I wanted. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go to collage; the idea of being a _somebody _after eighteen years of being treated like a _nobody_ seemed too impossible now. I'd kept Merry-Lewis alive in my head, preserving her memory, and I figured that I should take a crack at it for her sake, if not my own.

It was the first night in New York that my life took its fated turn.

I met you.

--

Yeah, yeah I know. Not very exciting. It's just supposed to set up the character of Anna Marie, and then the action starts next chapter, I promise. However, this does serve as both a prelude to the story AND as an interlude to the story; basically, it's a conversation that takes place later on.

You can tell pretty much straight off that this is completely AU. Rogue retains part of her powers (whoever she gets close to dies) but she's not so crippled that she can't touch. She's not a mutant, just supremely cursed.

Review and make me supremely happy?


	2. From Mississippi to New York

A.N./ Chapter 1. Gave you guys a two for one combo since I felt that the prologue was a bit on the short side. It doesn't even _attempt _to follow the Twilight plotline, I know. Accents were a pain in the ass to deal with, and annoyed me quite a bit.

Anyways...

Disclaimer: Don't own, so don't sue.

_**CHAPTER **_**1:**

From Mississippi to N e w Y o r k 

"This is yo' new home,"

The words rang in my head like a bad siren, snapping me out of the fleeting dreams that filled the recesses of my mind only scant moments before. My head was a fog. Whatever I'd seen in sleep was now rapidly draining away like water in a cupped pair of hands. It made me feel uneasy; I'd never forgotten a dream instantly after waking. But maybe the trickling sensation in the pit of my stomach was the byproduct of the nerves in my body going haywire.

I unfolded myself from the hot, sticky leather seat and brought my head level to the grimy, fingerprint-stained car window. My sleep-blurred eyes made out a chalky gray sidewalk that lead to a solid wall of red bricks.

Trash and the cans that overflowed with it seemed to be deposited everywhere in the alleys that ran parallel to the square house. Angles and straight, flat lines only seemed to point to the most noticeable feature of the building: its concrete stoop, with a procession of stairs leading to the entry, a flat, unremarkable wooden door. The door was painted a garish green, wood chipped and paint peeling from years of neglect. The disuse and general dilapidation of it was a bad enough sign of my life to come, but the strangest aspect of the house to me was the total lack of embellishment.

I once lived with a really old, mean hag in a one-story mobile home. She herself was a wicked bitch of a woman, spouting biblical nonsense and griping up at me for being "just like her daughter": a girl who ran away at thirteen to Vegas and was supposedly some kind of crack whore. Anyway, her lemon-yellow house was decorated to the eaves with shiny pinwheels and cracked porcelain angel statues. My first impression back then was of the candy house in that nursery rhyme "Hansel and Gretel."

I'd lived in a bunch of places since then, but, I dunno, the image stuck to me. Ever since the lemon-cake house, I learned to pick out the things in the yard and the image that the house projected to me on sight. First impressions tended to be right, and the first impression of this building didn't sit well with me. Two-stories of a narrow, flat brick wall and surrounding heaps of compost just screamed the word "New York Ghetto." It looked like it hadn't been lived in for a couple years, at _least_.

I suppressed the low groan that rose in the back of my throat.

From a series of backwoods trailer parks to a New York City ghetto house. This year was off to a great start.

"Don' it jus' look grand, honey? Like ah fresh new start," babbled the clipped, overly-cheery voice of the social worker. A thick, flaky southern accent coated every word that she chomped out of her mouth like sugary, bubble-gum flavored toothpaste. And I was the plaque that covered her teeth: something she'd much prefer to get rid of on the side of the road then drive to New York. I guessed she only did her job for the money.

"Ah mean, think about it! You' very own room, sugah! Now don' ah jus' know that you can' wait ta unpack!" the lady (I think her name was Shirley or something) cooed, like she was talking to a baby that was splattered in vomit or some equally filthy substance. I grunted a standard non-committal response.

"Ah guess."

I was really growing sick of this two-faced, careless woman who paraded around like a martyr. That, and I'd been cooped up in this stale-smelling car for _hours _with no A/C. Sweat clung to me everywhere, and I just wanted to see if there was a working shower in this place. I wouldn't be surprised in the least if there wasn't.

"Well, then why don' we mosey on outta here and find out, Miss Anna-Marie?" She sounded a tad more annoyed, like she was getting more and more tired of coating her words in false sweetness. When I darted a look into the rear-view mirror I saw the signature crease between her over-plucked eyebrows that appeared on her face whenever she was annoyed. It was something I'd seen a lot of since we took off from Tupelo, Mississippi, the great state of motor ways and white trash, home to the collection of screwed-up people I'd had to live with...only to be shunted up a thousand miles to New York.

It just makes a gal feel loved when nobody in her own state will adopt her.

I sighed, collected the purple suitcase that was stowed under the leather seat, and pushed open the car door without comment. I didn't want to talk to her anymore than I had to.

The sky was a deep, creamy gray, brimming with water that swelled, waiting to be spilled. The deep, angry blue hovered behind the outline of the house like an ominous aura, warning people away. I was struck with the sudden urge to hide myself behind the trim figure of the lady before me. Her lion's mane of permed, bleached hair alone would probably do the job.

She shoved a hand into the large, grotesquely tacky bag at her shoulder and pulled out a solitary gold key. The woman walked up the steps of the stoop in her four-inch stilettos, creating sharp, echoing slaps against the pavement.

The key fit snugly inside the padlock that chained the doorknob of the building to the wall, and within seconds we were inside. The door instantly shut behind us, raising a cloud of dust when it came in contact with a particularly ratty screen.

I stepped inside cautiously behind the social worker, feeling my gaze probe the area once again, automatically scanning for exits and escape routes that I could make use of. This was another habit I'd lifted off a foster home a year or so back with a family of eight kids and a single mother. The older ones sneaked out regularly; it wasn't long before I'd joined them.

I immediately located a side-door that was built into the left-most wall that looked like it would lead right into the alley that I'd spied outside, but it was bolted and nailed furiously into the brick.

I gave a low whistle at the conditions of the house.

The floor beneath my feet creaked and groaned like it was alive, and the high ceilings' rafters were exposed, painted over with a glossy black.

There wasn't much in the way of light in the interior—only a few shabby lamps scattered around sporadically were the source of artificial energy. There wasn't any lights in the ceiling, nor were there any fans. Yet although the place looked like it was built in the thirties, it was surprisingly spotless. Not a single piece of clutter_ anywhere_: the surfaces of the stove, wooden counter-tops, sink, and tables were all _bare_.

A small T.V. was pushed up against a wall, with two plush armchairs and an array of coffee tables gathered beside it. All of the furniture appeared old, but untouched. It was eerie, and I felt chills prick up whatever skin that was exposed.

"Mistah Worthington? Hello? Anehbody heah?" called out Shirley/Sherry/whatever. Her tinny voice was sent back in a series of echoes, the sound waves bouncing off of the hollow surfaces of the virtually empty house. I assumed that she was talking to the owner of the house; when she'd blabbered a torrential hailstorm of words in the car I'd caught the name several times. So my new guardian was a Mr. Worthington?

"So...this Mistah Worthington is...?"

"Oh honey pearl, he's gonna be the one ta take care o' yah! Mistah Worthington is a very generous man. He came in fer an in'erview a while back, Ah jus' din't know that he wasn' gonna be here, sweetie, that's all."

I had to blink furiously before the stream of continuous words made sense in my head. And then she launched into it again.

"But Marlene at the front desk mentioned _somethin'_'bout this Mistah Worthington sendin' some kinda email, so maybe he planned ta be out—" At this point, her gaze had dropped to one of the corners of the small counter top. Shining under the dim light of a window was a green Post-It note. Sharing a look with the babbling woman, I walked over to the surface and picked it up. It read a hastily scrawled message:

_Sent an email, but in case you didn't get it. Had to step out._

_Food's in the freezer. Bake at 450 degrees for 1o min._

_Back later._

—_Warren Worthington._

I turned the note over before re-reading its message. He was gone? He knew that I was coming, and he just decided to _leave?_ Well gee-fucking-golly gosh, was _I _in for a hell of a new home. I don't know _what _I'd hoped for. Maybe I thought that someone outside the state would be different; maybe I thought that I had a chance. Maybe I actually believed that "fresh start" BS spouted from Barbie: Social Worker Edition.

Whatever I expected, it certainly wasn't _this_. If this Worthington guy was going to trust me with his house when he hadn't even made an effort to show up, he was sadly mistaken. I planned to take my backpack and bolt the second this blonde bimbo left me alone...

Speaking of, the lady was reading the note herself, a glorious look appearing on her powdered features. I was right, she really _couldn't _wait to get rid of me. I shot a dark glare at her stupid face, willing it to burst into flames as she adjusted her snake skin purse and placed the golden key on the wooden counter with a flourish. When she turned to face me, she was struggling to hide a bright smile behind a "disappointed" facade.

"Sorreh, honey, looks like this is our las' stop togetha. Ah'll see yah soon, 'kay? Now be a good girl for you' new daddy. He seemed eager ta finally have a child of his own. Wouldn' want ta ruin a nice, charmin' man like that one seemed ta be," the social worker gushed with all the sincerity of a Hollywood actress.

Without a second look back, she sauntered to the peeling front door and left, leaving me suddenly alone in the unfamiliar house.

So much for social workers being good with kids.

The second the door slid shut, I got to work. I crept over to the clean brown counter top and began pulling open all of the drawers, searching for a cash deposit. I wouldn't leave the house without money; that would just be stupid.

As my gloved hands scanned the contents of the storage area by touch, I glanced around once more, keeping my eyes open for any conspicuous-looking decorations where he could've stashed the money.

After a few minutes of sifting through neatly piled papers and various items of cutlery, my clothed fingers felt along something thin, sharp, and flexible. I lifted the hand to my face and in the half-light I could make out a flash of silver and a series of numbers. I was holding a credit card. I inspected the piece of plastic closely, just able to decipher the symbols on the card as a name, Warren Worthington.

My lips stretched into a vicious grin, the feeling strange to my tired face. I tucked the card into the fold of my long sleeve and made sure it was secured between the hem of my black glove. A _credit card_. Finally, some decent money to blow. I just hoped that this guy hadn't already maxed it out.

To hell with making my own dinner. If he ever returned that night, he could make his own damn food. I, meanwhile, was going to acquaint myself with the yet-to-be discovered party joint in this neck of the metaphorical woods and maybe locate myself a good, dependable fast-food place while I was at it.

I groped blindly around the house towards what I presumed was the bathroom. Instead, I stumbled into the narrow wood frame of a door jamb to find myself in another dimly-lit portion of the house.

The walls were high, higher than I was used to in Mississippi, and washed over with a sterile white. They glowed with a blue pallor, courtesy of the stormy light filtering in from the peaks behind the blinds that covered two floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a plain, unembellished corner of the building, plainly tucked away and out of sight. Not even a single piece of furniture lay in the plush-carpeted confines, but I was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of guilt.

This must have been the room I was meant to stay in. This Worthington guy...he was _really_ going to let me have my own room. For some reason, I could do nothing but stare at the stark white carpet beneath my combat boots, at the dark tracks they left behind.

He probably had the entire place cleaned up just for me, and he obviously thought ahead to prepare for this moment. He'd even cooked for me. Me! Anna-Marie, the girl who was thrown in the trash before she was a year old. The problem that the entire state of Mississippi had gotten tired of.

What the hell was wrong with me? So the guy hadn't shown up—he was probably just held up at his work or something. But that would be a good thing; that meant that my new guardian could be some kind of a responsible adult, a far-cry from the white-trash hicks that took me in down south.

I slowly placed the dead weight of the backpack on my shoulders on the ground, my eyes sucking up the image of the space.

It wasn't big, but it was mine to do whatever I wished with it. My own room, in a place that was now looking a lot better than I had originally imagined it to be. I hadn't met Warren Worthington yet. He could have been a good guy. It was a little hard to believe with all of the misfortune that had been thrust my way, but I could stick it out. I bit my lip, still frozen in the middle of the white room like an idiot. My mouth was filled with the stale taste of lipstick, and it broke me out of my reverie.

Whatever kind of person Mr. Worthington was, we both couldn't afford getting too close to each other. I couldn't deal with switching schools again when I was about eight school months away from graduating, and I'm pretty sure Warren Worthington couldn't afford to end up _dead. _It wouldn't do much good to act like a model child and get him to sincerely _like _me if I had to distance myself as

much as possible. At the risk of being thrown out of his house before the first night, I fingered the card jammed up my sleeve and crept into the next door way, one that I could clearly see led to the bathroom.

Thankfully, this one had an actual light switch. I flicked it on without much thought, my eyes beginning to drink in the small area. The first thing that caught my eye in the beige space was the

large reflective glass set over the industrial metal sink.

A tanned face gazed mutely back at me. It had always seemed a little strange to me that I possessed tanned skin when I was hardly ever an active child. I distinctly remembered being a pale kid as well, embodying all of the traits of a stereotypical redneck like freckles and curly hair.

I guess I was kind of pretty; my looks and stand-offish tendencies did more than secure me a "title" at my old school. My eyes were perpetually wide and a bright green, a color I always likened to the green of sour apples or sunny grass.

Actually, my eyes were practically the only feature I admired about my face, the rest was too frail-looking, too pinched. In fact, I rocked the goth girl look pretty well without even trying. The layers of dark clothing only seemed to cement my position in the social ladder of cliques in all of my other schools. It was my way of trying to blend in, but it only ever brought more attention to me, the pretty Goth loner chick with the habit of sticking to the shadows.

My hair was a spiky, shoulder-length mess of auburn and platinum. An experiment in hair-dye gone completely wrong was evident in the stripes that seemed to cover the first chunks of curls that framed my forehead and cheekbones. I immediately pulled a scowl at the me in the mirror, watching her features twist and do the same. I looked unapproachable, dressed to the nines in a red tank top, generic black skinny-jeans and a pair of the highest gloves I owned.

Bitchy, unapproachable, untouchable Anna-Marie. That was exactly the kind of vibe I was used to sending out, the kind of vibe I _had _to send out if I planned on traversing the streets of New York alone.

I flipped my hair over my shoulder and sighed, scooping up the straps of my backpack and dumping it on one of the two armchairs in the front of the room before plodding out of the door.

The darkness of the thunderheads that loomed above had already descended from their previous lofty positions by the time I'd left the generic model of a New York house behind me. Now they stared down at the world below, threatening, swollen, and dangerously purple. I gingerly rubbed my arms together in an effort to quell the goose flesh that had drawn itself over my covered hands, instantly feeling contempt for the Munroes for not including my beloved bolero jacket in the few clothes they _had _packed for me.

Turning the street-corner, I memorized the name painted on the street-sign. If I ever got lost, I could easily just call for a cab; after all, this was New York.

I let my feet carry me aimlessly for about an hour, taking in the new sights of this section of the Big Apple. It wasn't completely ghetto, but it wasn't the total classiness that was broad-casted all over the Hollywood movies. I enjoyed the exercise.

It felt good to stretch out my legs after the tortuously long ride here, plus it gave my mind a time to just zone out and take an information dump. I didn't think for an hour, just focusing on the sensations my instincts were bringing in. It was like sleep-walking without dreaming, because I was completely conscious and aware of every movement that my body made.

But I was totally out of it. I didn't notice where exactly my wandering had led me to until the sounds of shrill laughter and hooting reached my ears, effectively delivering my brain a wake-up slap.

I halted mid-step at the sudden intrusion of noise. It had been quiet before—it was about nine o'clock at night—but these sounds set me on-edge. I had a good gut feeling that whatever they were coming from was in the direction of trouble. And this was New York City: the place where people of all ages, races, and sexes were never safe at night.

I surveyed the street, attempting to locate the source of the disturbance.

_Shit._

I really had, in my walk away from what I thought was a ghetto-house, wandered into a _real _ghetto. Surrounding me were buildings that were half the size of the smallest mobile homes in Mississippi. All of them had barred windows, cracked paint, a complete absence of yard...

A few even had their windows destroyed, images my brain associated immediately with the thought of drive-by shootings, drug dealers, and gangs. My eyes wide, I was just about to turn around and jog in the other direction when the voices I'd heard before increased in volume and clarity.

_Double shit._

There, right in my peripheral vision, was the source of the noises. It was a group of men dressed sloppily in wife-beaters and low, baggy pants, all laughing and mouthing off streams of profanities while doing so. There were about six or seven of them; I couldn't make out the exact number because they all appeared to be clustered around something and the night had rapidly blanketed the sky now, effectively dampening whatever little light there was in the first place.

Hopefully it would be enough cover for me to sneak away before they noticed me.

"Hey there, baby!" _Oh, fuck._ I kept walking, studiously ignoring the various cat-calls and whistles now unceremoniously being thrown my way.

"C'mon, now, don't be like that!" It was a different man's voice that rang out, now. I darted a brief glance behind me, only to see that they'd all disbanded from their little circle, all staring at me. There were seven of them...

My eyes widened. Eight.

The thing they had been clustered around...it was a man. He was lying, unmoving, on the black pavement. Even in the dark, I could see the grotesque angle his arm had been skewed at, mysterious dark stains splotching the front of his white shirt.

I broke into a run. It wasn't long until I head the pounding of footsteps behind me. Damn it, why did I have to be so stupid?! This was New York, not Mississippi, and gangs patrolled the dank streets, streets that cops didn't even have the balls to patrol. If they caught me and did God-knows-what to me, nobody was going to save me.

I turned a sharp corner, feeling my lungs strain with the effort. The leering voices and mocking laughter only seemed to magnify,meaning that they were catching up. I kept my head down and concentrated on breathing, willing myself to go faster...

Suddenly I was falling. My stomach dropped startlingly and I was thrown back, my feet kicked up into the air. My back fell into a puddle of cold, grimy water, and I cursed my lack of balance, lack of attention. My head was aching, pulses of pain pounding in my skull with every rapid heartbeat. I felt myself cry out, even though I had no recollection of thinking to do so.

Dark figures obscured my vision, standing over me. A spasm of sharp pain assaulted my ribcage; one of the men had kicked me, _hard. _I yelled out again, desperately dizzy and assaulted by vertigo. My arms worked futilely to support my torso, to bring it up out of the muck so that I could escape. They were shoved out from under me with another kick from someone standing behind me, and a sickening crunch sounded as my elbow was broken.

I screamed. The agony ripped through my body in waves and I shuddered and rasped and begged, cradling my wounded arm pathetically. A heavy noise filtered through my brain.

They were laughing rociously, literally in hysterics, at my situation. I wasn't shocked. I'd seen their kind before. Anger gripped at me. I was suddenly just...furious.

How the fuck could they just sit there and _laugh? _I could feel my rising hate for these men building, growing, until the feeling seemed to pump with every palpitation of my heart.

It was suddenly much easier to push myself up from the filthy liquid. I balanced myself on the balls of my feet, sinking into an automatic fight-stance. My arms were brought up in front of my face, balled menacingly into fists. I swept a glance at the faces of my assailants.

"Yah'll seem suhprised," I muttered darkly. For all intents and purposes, they should have been afraid. Okay, seven-on-one was still a great disadvantage, but they should've at least lost some of their rampant excitement.

What I heard next was more obnoxious laughter. If anything, they were _amused_. I felt a prickle of fear settle in my gut. They weren't even phased. They were about to kill in the street and they didn't bat an eyelash. I wasn't stupid; I knew that they'd probably killed before. Hell, that body that prompted me to dash in the first place was a good enough testament to that. They probably even had guns, and weren't whipping them out immediately because they didn't believe that I could do any real damage. A wounded me against a loaded gun would surely lose.

"Fuck this," I muttered under my breath.

I launched into action as best I could, studiously ignoring the heavy throb of both my arm and head. My first swing hit the man closest to me right in the nose, the force rewarded with a sharp crack and I felt the bone smash against my knuckles. Blood, black in the lack of light, flowed freely out of his nostrils as he gave a strangled cry of pain.

"What the hell?!"

"Stupid bitch broke my nose!"

I used the distraction to kick out at the man to my left, who was floundering to catch said appendage before I could kick him down. Too late—my heavy combat boot slammed into his ribcage, knocking him back against the brick wall. Judging by the power I'd put into my leg, I knew he'd be out cold.

One down, six to go.

When I looked up again, their laughing faces had been replaced with fury and yes, even a little _fear_. I smiled dangerously. To be feared was to be powerful. It was like high school all over again, with me taking out the reigning bitch squad of the school.

"Aneh-one else wanna join yo' buddy ovah there?" I asked, hoping that they'd take the hint and leave, hoping that they _didn't _have pistols that they were ready to use on me.

My cheeky comment was met with further anger. The tallest of the figures motioned to the others, issuing silent orders. The man on the end of the half-circle formation suddenly possessed a piece of glinting light...

"Fucking _shoot _this bitch!" shouted the tallest.

Shit. He _did_ have a gun. I scanned the group again. They were all staring intently at the guy who held the pistol, which probably meant that the rest of them _didn't_. If I could just distract him, I could knock it out of his hands...

I crouched slightly, unnoticeable in the shadow of the alley. In the next instant, I was on top of him, using my nails and my hands to cause damage to every piece of exposed skin that I could. He screamed underneath me as I dug my long nails into his eyelids, feeling the area growing wet under my touch. Startled yells and gasps came from the group of men around me. Hands gripped at my waist and my arms, tearing me off of their friend by harsh force.

I didn't see one of them grasp the fallen piece of metal. I didn't feel the bullet until the shot went off, an alarmingly loud, disarming bang.

The air was knocked out of me. I couldn't even scream as I felt the horrible _pain_ rip my guts apart, like someone was chewing a hole in my stomach. My gloved hands immediately went to the wound, staunching the blood flow as best as I could. The liquid seeped through the cloth easily, and it just kept coming. My vision was becoming overrun with splotches, and only when I looked up at the man holding the gun did I realize that I had fallen to the floor. My entire being was rife with the horrible agony; all of my nerves were on fire.

I clawed at my open wound, feeling the combined effects of my injuries' on my mind. I was slowly fading away, out of consciousness. I couldn't do anything when another swift kick was directed at my side. I barely felt it; the sensation was nothing compared to the pain of the gaping hole in my stomach.

I watched his foot ram into my side repeatedly, helpless to do anything as my body jostled with the movement. The entire end of his white tennis shoe was quickly becoming covered in the brown-red of my blood while I whimpered soundlessly.

I tried. Nothing to do about it now but wait for it to be over, for the blackness to conquer my rapidly waning. I closed my eyes...

A sharp metallic twang rang in my ears, forcing my lids open.

A glint of light danced before my view, disappearing and reappearing as a bar that whirled out of sight. Another hollow sound, and one of the men crumpled helplessly onto the dirty pavement. A series of harsh noises echoed off of the brick walls of the alley and within seconds all six men were twitching uselessly on the cement.

The only figure left standing was clutching the beam of light in its hand. I blinked slowly, feeling the last vestiges of life being drained from my form. The thing was right next to me.

I summoned the strength to crane my neck upwards, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever had taken out the others. It didn't save me. I was still going to die from a bullet wound and severe bleeding.

Ruby red rings glinted like jewels in the half-light, the only things visible in the dark form that hovered over me. They were hypnotizing in their crystalline brilliance, cast softly under the glow permitted by the rain clouds. Those pinpricks of light seemed to regard me curiously, the only things watching over me now.

They were the last thing I saw before the darkness claimed me completely.

x x x x x x

--

Yes, that WAS Angel making a cameo appearance :P

He becomes a pivotal part of the novel, actually...

And there you have it. Chapter 1. Like it? Hate it? Drop me a review.


	3. Man of the House

**EDIT (3/29) Just realized that "Worthington" is replaced with "Worthington" in several places! Jeez, I've got to stop writing at three in the morning...**

**(Thanks to SilverVulpine for catching the mistake!)**

A.N./ 'lo again. I've come up with a schedule for this story: I will personally guarentee a post a month. Any better is completely up to my life right now; it's pretty hectic. Oh, and my satisfaction with the story. Though I've already written the first five chapters, so...

BTW, this story is going to be _slow_. Remy doesn't make an appearance 'till the NEXT chapter (besides his brief cameo in the first one). Don't worry, though! Chapter Four is gonna be filled to the brim with feisty!Rougue and flirty!Gambit. In fact, I drew several sheets of fanart for the story (as well as outlined the next twenty chapters) in my TAKS booklet. I asked if I could make a copy of the doodles, that they had "sentimental value," and my proctor gave me a clearly "wtf" face. To which I promptly backed down against.

The next day I was forced to erase everything I'd drawn in my booklet. I cursed the stupid nosy counselor for the rest of the day. =_='

**Disclaimer:** I, in no way, claim ownership of the X-Men, especially not the weird guardian or awesome Southie chick. Do I even need to put a disclaimer for Twilight?

_**CHAPTER**_ **2:**

Man of the H o u s e

Crimson irises floated in and out of my mind like ever-present aura of a fading ghost.

When my mind finally resurfaced, the image was burned into the back of my eyes like a sunspot had scorched them there. I awoke with a sweaty start, breathing heavily and inexplicably shaking. The hazy memory took me back to the events that led to me being conked out like a light.

I should have been dead. I would have been dead.

Furtively, my bare hands searched along the side of my stomach, a place I distinctly remembered having a bullet lodged in when I was last awake. My fingers pushed along the wall of skin through the cotton of my shirt until I winced involuntarily at the abrupt stab of pain that accompanied the action. I peeled off my grimy tank top and threw it beside me, taking the opportunity to study the bare flesh.

There wasn't a mark on me. I balked. How the hell could that have happened? I blinked several times, but my vision remained the same. My stomach was as unharmed as the day I popped out. While my mind struggled to overcome _that _hurdle, I searched my surroundings.

My body was cushioned on a large, soft mattress, draped with several layers of thick comforter. The bed looked to be a California King in size, and I would have sighed in pleasure and taken full advantage of the situation were I not so freaked out. I had absolutely no idea where I was. I virtually jumped out of the plush bed, instantly regretting the action when my butt hit the floor and spasmed painfully. When I tried to bring myself up to stand, my entire being throbbed like I'd just completed in a triathlon. I gritted my teeth and commanded my legs to stand.

Flexing the muscles in my achy appendages, I glanced around the room once more. It was large and spacious, colored in neutral tones of creamy beige and blue-gray. Lush carpet tickled the pads of my feet, and morning light filtered from a large window behind the headboard of the low bed. There were almost no furnishings beside the bed and a large book case. I padded over to the oak shelves, feeling a passive sort of interest compelling me.

_Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Moby-Dick, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde..._ Several worn classics stood out glaringly between stacks of atlases, history books and various other boring titles. What kind of a person grouped fiction with thick tomes on Tax Law? Though the style of the room had niggled at my memory, I still had no clue as to where I was. And with my body aching like I'd gotten a private trainer to exercise every muscle I happened to possessed, I would be in no condition to raise up any kind of fight like I had in the alley way.

I walked around the tall series of shelves to push open a narrow door that lay half-opened to the left of it. It was another bathroom...but it was easily just as big or bigger than the bedroom outside. High ceilings, large windows, muted colors. The style of the décor was minimalist, once again. The marbled floor was cold beneath my feet as I walked over to one of the glass windows.

I peered down at the street below. A straight, narrow alley ran between the wall of the house and the next one, several old tin trash bins piled on top of each other haphazardly. Silent drops of rain hailed from the silvery sky and created miniature lakes and oceans, coagulations of the filth and trash that littered the pavement below.

I was at the house. But how did I get there? I frantically wracked my mind, letting the mental half-images settle, hoping that they would make sense. It was a jumble of unfinished scenes; only everything up until I was shot was clear. The rest...the rest was like a dream, the kind that flees the moment I wake up. All I could clearly see were those eyes...red eyes that shone so fiercely, even in the dark. A shiver involuntarily crawled up my spine.

I tore my gaze from the window, about to walk out of the room when a flash of movement caught my eyes. A mirror. I stared at the reflective surface incredulously, my mouth gaping stupidly as my eyes bugged. With my shirt off and my back turned just so, I could make out something marked on my shoulder, just to the left of the bra strap that lay there. I backed up, putting my body closer to the glass.

Further inspection revealed that there was something _written _on my back, that the marks were black sharpie scrawled on my _skin_. I stretched my neck, feeling the pressure in my eyeballs as I read the message.

**_Be more careful next time._**

...the hell? My brow scrunched in confusion as I traced the thick handwriting. Whoever must have deposited me here must have done it. Once again, the shape of the mysterious set of eyes entered my head, a brief flash of luminous scarlet. I blinked furiously. Why were they so ingrained into my mind? Why couldn't that image leave me?

I scowled, turning stiffly from the room, intent on banishing the thoughts from myself. I was alive, and that was all that mattered. Hopefully I could just _get on _with my life.

I walked into the main room, scooping up the red tank top that I had thrown on the carpet before and shimmying into it. I noticed that it was still darkened with brown stains of a mix of blood and filth. I must have been equally grubby. I made up my mind to collect my things and get clean the second I came back here. Maybe a long, hot bath would take the edge off of my strained muscles.

I strode silently out of the doorway, finding myself at the top of a stairway. Wincing slightly, I gritted my teeth and dragged my feet down each drop until I reached the bottom. I realized that I was now before the screen-paneled front door, and I froze.

I never expected that someone else would have been in the house with me.

Quiet sounds of light footsteps reached my ears. Then the sound of a stream of water, which was what I assumed to be the tap being turned on. The fridge was opened, the tap turned off, and then footsteps until the sound of a body sinking into something soft.

"You can come out now," called a rough voice. A man's voice. I shrunk against the drywall. Was it the same person who had dropped me here? Was it the man with the strange red eyes? I cautiously held my position. I was completely vulnerable here...if someone tried to take advantage of me...

"I heard you on the stairs, so I know you're there, Anna-Marie. C'mon, I made some food for you," said the man tiredly. I hesitated, then pushed myself from my hiding place.

I couldn't see just who was speaking; his body was sprawled in the chaise lounger, but it had been turned away from me. A delicious smell invaded my nostrils. I quickly located the source on the plain counter top. I suddenly realized how hungry I was—my stomach had no problems in growling loudly to remind me of my lack of food.

Stacks of steaming pancakes sat on a large white plate, a pitcher of golden-brown maple syrup right next to them. My mouth watered. I seized the plate with two strides and began wolfing down the food, pouring generous amounts of sticky syrup over the buttermilk cakes.

Within minutes they were sitting in my stomach, my bare hands and mouth sticky. A small chuckle sounded from behind me.

Crap. I forgot about him. I spun around, leveling a narrowed glare at the man. He was tall, maybe an inch over six-foot, and he wore a sharp suit that nevertheless looked slept in. He had a middle-aged face—I guessed he was in his mid-forties—but held a boyish look about him with swept-back, flaxen hair and only slightly weathered features. He struck me as the famous rich businessman type, and he was undeniably familiar. I searched his face, but I didn't see any rose-colored eyes. For some reason, that prompted a sigh of relief.

"How do yah know mah name?" I asked frostily. I wasn't about to show a complete stranger any manners.

"Warren Worthington, pleased to meet you," he answered instead, completely disregarding my rudeness and presenting me with a hand. I didn't shake it, crossing my arms hostilely. His smile wavered as he withdrew his hand uncertainly, tucking it instead into a pocket sewn onto the front of his slacks.

"As I'm sure you've guessed, I'm your new guardian," he continued.

"Uh-huh, whatevah."

I sauntered away from him, walking over to the chaise lounges where I expected my bag to be. It was. I lifted one of the handles and nearly cried out at the pain that shot through my arm. Still, I forced myself to keep my grip on the vinyl and turned in the direction of the staircase, fully intending to take that long bath I had planned the second I entered that bathroom. I noticed Worthington's incredulous gaze on me, but I commanded myself not to care.

He'd obviously been taking care of me and had even made me breakfast, I was fully set on being a complete asshole to him. It was the part of me that I showed to everyone: the tip of the iceberg. Who said that he'd actually like the real me? No, being nice to him was as good as setting myself up for failure.

How could I bolt from a house that I liked? I had to keep all options open, and detachment was a big factor in that. Yet I felt a twinge in the pit of my stomach, a feeling I grudgingly acquainted with guilt. He seemed like a genuinely nice man...

"Ah'm gonna take a showah," I blurted out, watching in annoyance as his agitated face smoothed into a look of realization. The prick of remorse in my stomach was instantly soothed, but the thought put me into a bad mood.

x x x x x x

I shook away the wet tendrils that stuck to my face, feeling them slap against the middle of my back. I quickly dried off with the terry-cloth towel that was wrapped snugly around my form, making sure to brutally scrub the area just below my left clavicle.

I had no other marks from that night, so why should that one have remained? It disturbed me to imagine someone pushing aside my shirt and bra—or worse, removing them altogether—and scrawling a cheeky message there. It somehow reminded me of those silly legends where the vampire or demon "marks" his or her prey. Of course, I didn't have an imprint of a set of teeth in my skin, but the connection was close enough for me to be wary of it.

I knew that after what had transpired that night that I was no longer going to walk aimlessly around my new city. It may have been cowardice, but it felt more like _instinct. _I had more of a mind never to want to run into those eyes again than any band of murderous hoodlums...though that weighed heavily on the decision as well.

I frowned at that thought, letting the memory from last night wash over me again. Every time I re-lived it, it seemed to vanish a little bit more like an old jacket that frayed and tattered with each extended use of it. I knew that two years ago, I could have taken them or at least have fared better against them. I was getting rusty.

First thing on my list of things to do in this town was to get in a fight with another lowlife, someone I could practice on. I hated just the thought of being pathetic. The fact that I would have died last night if it weren't for outside help was a sour taste on my tongue. I was used to being a kick-ass punk who didn't want or need anyone's help. It looked like I had to get a little better if I wanted to maintain that image.

After pulling on a pair of old sweats and a t-shirt, I swiftly bolted down the stairs, silently thanking the bath I'd just taken for the lessened soreness that I felt. I reached the living room and was met with Worthington's stare. He was still sitting in that armchair, fingers meshed in his lap. He was waiting for me. I slowed my gait, only stopping when I stood before him.

"Aneh ideas on how Ah ended up here?"

"How was your bath? Are you feeling better?" Again, I was taken aback at how casually this guy seemed to dodge my attempts at being unpleasant. I made a show of shrugging nonchalantly.

"Ah guess so." Usually, for some reason or another, adults became pissed off when I didn't give them direct answers. Worthington only seemed pleased, his smile widening. I frowned.

"How did Ah get here? Last time Ah was awake, Ah was in an alleh."

"An alley? Really? What were you doing there?" His eyebrows were drawn in evident confusion, a touch of concern in his voice. I was quickly becoming pissed off.

"What d'yah mean 'realleh?!' Ah was unconscious, bleedin' my heart out with a bullet in mah stomach! How d'yah not _know?!_" I exploded angrily. To my chagrin, he only ignored my outburst, bringing his hand to the bridge of his straight nose.

"When I arrived yesterday, you were spread out in the armchair. I just carried you upstairs and put you to bed. There wasn't a scratch on you, although those stains on your clothes did look suspiciously like blood." Worthington sighed, sounding like he'd just been steam-rolled. I raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Oh yeah? An' jus' where were yah, huh? When the social workah dropped meh off, nobodeh was here. Jus' a damn note an' some cookin' instructions." I accused in irritation, fastening my hands onto my hips. What the hell did he expect me to do if he wasn't here? Take a nap or watch T.V. in a complete _stranger's_ house?

"I had a hold-up at work. I really am sorry for leaving you here all on your own. I didn't know...had no idea that in two days..." the blonde man apologized profusely. "...in an alley, with a bullet wound...?" he muttered, as if he couldn't quite believe it. He hung his head in his lap, cradled between his palms.

I instantly felt a sickening flood of guiltiness and pity, as if it were _my fault _for making him this way, as if it were my fault that I was _shot_. I shook my head violently, kicking the unwanted feelings away. I curled my lip into a sneer."Yeah, whatevah."

I stalked away from the man, trying to sort out the confusion I was feeling. So he didn't know how I'd gotten here, and when he found me, I didn't have a single wound? And I was out for two _days? _It was strange, almost to the point of me questioning whether the event even really took place at all, the only evidence to the contrary being the writing on my shoulder and my stained clothes.

"What the hell happened ta meh?" I muttered bitterly, gritting my teeth.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and I glared back. Worthington shifted awkwardly under my heavy stare. I found it kind of funny, in a way; he acted like a man who'd met his grown child for the first time, completely inexperience and awkwardly imitating how the actors handled their children in the movies. I found it kind of funny, but I gave him the cold shoulder anyway.

Warren backed off accordingly, his eyes suddenly on anything but me. Weirdo.

"Your school starts tomorrow," was all he murmured, the few wrinkles on his handsome face unexpectedly magnified, carrying more weight under the dim light. School? My puzzled expression must have shown, because he was quick to explain.

"Stuyvesant high school. I enrolled you in as soon as I knew that you were going to be coming... You were supposed to show up yesterday, but I don't really think that matters. Stuyvesant specializes in math...your best subject, according to your school record."

"yah went through mah records?!" For some reason, that last comment made me furious. He'd read my record, read how many absences I had from playing hooky, read how many times I had gotten in severe trouble for kicking an idiot's ass...

"Yes, I went through your records. The social agency in Tupelo sent them to me after I decided that I wanted to adopt you. I guess they assumed your less-than-model student reputation was going to change my mind," he gave a short laugh as if in disbelief. "I told them that I didn't care how many times you'd ran out on your foster homes or that you seemed to skipped school twice a month—"

"Oh, realleh? Well, yah should. 'Cause that's all Ah am, a rude, bitchy teenager." I interrupted hotly.

Why the hell was he pretending to be so _nice _to me?! The thing I hated the _most_, of all the drunkards and druggies I'd come across, were liars: two-faced, manipulative cowards, too afraid to get on the wrong side of anybody. This man wasn't flaky like the social worker that dropped me here, but that only furthered my irritation.

I couldn't tell if he was genuine or not, but I hated the possibility. It was too good to be true, and it certainly was too good for anything I'd grown used to. It was like a fantasy, a beautiful dream soon to be replaced with a nightmare. I trusted my instincts, my gut feeling, and that was scrambled beyond understanding right now. Half of my intuition wanted to give up the fight and just relent, to accept that my life was capable of taking a good turn. The other part of me was feeling sicker and sicker with every blasted thing that came out of his mouth.

"...I don't think that," he answered finally, his voice quiet, his face pulled into a frown. I, for once, was at a loss of words, unsure of how to respond. He was a complete stranger. He was too forgiving...too polite to an obnoxious runaway with a bad reputation, all of which he had prior knowledge of. It was fishy. So I trusted the greater part of my conscience.

"You will soon enough," I muttered, traversing once again to the room upstairs. I needed to clear my confused head.

I spent the rest of the night curled in a California King-sized bed, reading but not comprehending one of the worn hardcovers I'd picked from the shelves at was impossible for me to sleep, my thoughts alternating

between Worthington and mysterious red eyes. I closely analyzed Worthington's reaction and his words. He was too _nice_, and that made me question him. He didn't appear to have a wife of any children; his house was much too clean for that.

Why would he want to adopt a teenager? The only answer I could come up with for that question involved the words "sex" and "slave," but there was a loophole to that: the fact that he requested for _me specifically_ almost entirely debunked the theory.

Pedophiles wouldn't have checked out with the Social Services, and they usually didn't hunt down a specific target like me... My understanding was that the beggars didn't choose, that any kid would've been good enough. I turned over his confusing mannerisms in my head, quickly growing frustrated when I hadn't yielded anything.

He obviously wasn't some kind of altruistic Good Sumaritan though, even if he wasn't a a child-molester. Why adopt a kid from Mississippi, a thousand miles away from New York? It was way too specific. If the man had simply wanted a child, he could just as easily have picked up any one of the kids from here. It seemed like New York would be just teeming with orphans.

I glowered at the book in my hands, just realizing that I'd read the last ten pages without actually absorbing anything. I threw down the novel, feeling the same sort of irrational anger from before gripping me.

I wasn't sure that I liked him, but I wasn't going to be responsible for his death. However superstitious _that _sounded.

All I knew was that wherever I went, people died. It first happened when I was little, with Merry-Lewis, then with the Stepsons, Greg Yardley, Savannah Monaghan, and then Bobby... I was pretty sure that I was indirectly the cause of six people's deaths. I was like a bad-luck charm, when that luck caught up with me, someone had to die. Although I didn't even remotely know Warren, I didn't particularly want to kill him.

I'd actually been to some good foster homes, and while they weren't malicious or anything, they acted as though taking care of me was an act of complete charity. I was a stranger in the house; there were no talks about "feelings." Most people just didn't care. As long as I wasn't dead, they could pass off the act as a good deed.

Warren Worthington was awkward, but he seemed too good to be true. I'd have to keep him alive if I ever wanted to finish high school, but that didn't mean that I'd have to like him.

I turned over on the plump mattress, feeling restless. I was tormented both by my strange new foster home and the mysterious events that occurred two nights ago. Each time I went over the details in my head, I grew more and more apprehensive.

So I get shot, and someone just _happens _to be there to save me? I wake up without a scratch, the only marks of the affair even _occurring_ being the sharpie on my shoulder and the stains on my shirt. I still didn't know how it could happen, and I still couldn't shake the crawling sensation I had that I was being watched. The ruby-red irises that corrupted my thoughts ensured that what little sleep I had was very fitful.

x x x x x x

Review! They make me feel all tingly inside... :)


	4. Stuyvesant

**EDIT (3/29): Again, changed all instances of "Lawson" with Worthington. **

A.N./ Releasing this early, because of my good mood and SPRING BREAK!

Chapter Four will be done in the next couple of days because of the above two reasons. :)

**Disclaimer: **Would you believe me, a dirt-poor geeky high-schooler, if I said that I owned it?

Didn't think so.

_**CHAPTER **_**3:**

S t u y v e s a n t

I was jarred out of whatever dream I was in the midst of by the siren blaring beside me.

My eyes snapped open, arms searching around blindly for the sound of the alarm. When a loud crash of something being obliterated reached my ears, I knew that the beeping sound had been silenced by less-than-conventional means. Namely, the effect of my fist sweeping the clock off of the bedside table. My first senses of the room was that it was pitch-black, nowhere _near_ the time I was used to waking up. That was also testament to my immense lethargy. I felt so sluggish that it was like I'd just had my brain taken out of me and replaced with a dead robot's. Yes, I couldn't even think of good similes when I woke up so early.

I drew the covers up over my head, fully intent on withdrawing back into my cocoon of sleep when the sound of knuckles against the wood of the door roused me once again. I growled at the door, my mood permanently soured. I didn't care if he had awful cricks in his neck from sleeping on the floor or if he had zombie-bags under his eyes—

Worthington entered with a tray of food held between his hands, and it was pathetic. My deep scowl all but disappeared as I internally struggled with my fogged mind.

"School?" I asked bluntly. No his, hellos, or good-mornings here.

A thin smile appeared on the blonde man's lips while my heart sunk a little lower. "Yeah."

I pulled myself out of the warmth of the blankets reluctantly, noting absently that my muscles had a lesser form of the soreness from yesterday. I didn't even recall moving that strenuously. Was I just supremely out of shape? I shook the stray thoughts from my brain, focusing on reaching the bathroom without falling over and dying. My sense of balance was out-of-whack; it was a miracle that I made it to the sink without killing myself while tripping.

It took me about ten minutes to take a quick shower. I went through my daily routine of finger-combing my hair and I located an eye-pencil from the bottom of my violet pack, lining my green eyes in typical goth fashion. I tugged on a black shirt and some jeans, plain clothes that would work to help me blend into the background. I then dug around until I found a decent pair of gloves, my black ones having been displaced. Hey, anything that kept people away from me worked.

I walked back into the main room and saw that Worthington had left, probably to go change into another sorry-looking designer suit. He'd left the tray of piping-hot food behind, perched precariously on the top of the same table the alarm had last been. A glass of orange juice was set next to a bowl of apple-flavored oatmeal, while the remains of the clock that I had brutalized earlier had disappeared.

I rolled my eyes, feeling yet another stab of guilt. If he was trying to manipulate me, it was working. This Worthington guy was going to get himself killed one of these days. I wouldn't be surprised if I was the cause. Nevertheless, I scarfed the meal, wishing for a good ol' helping of Cream of Wheat instead of oatmeal.

I reached the end of the stairs. Warren was sitting silently in that same armchair of his; the one that faced away from me. The silence that hung between us was so thick that I could cut it with a knife. I pretended not to notice.

"Ready to go?" Jesus, if I'd just heard his voice, I'd have thought it belonged to someone who'd just woken up from a coma.

"Sure."

I opened the door to the pitch darkness that is New York at seven in the morning, not bothering to wait for my foster-dad to follow. I heard his footsteps padding towards me soon enough. He walked the sidewalk that cut through his ugly lawn and led me to a small, square building adjacent to the main house, one that I assumed was the garage. There was a security panel on the electronic door, and with a few beeps the thing began to rise, an electric buzz filling the silent air.

He fished out a set of car-keys from his shirt pocket and unlocked the car before it was revealed to me. A plain, unremarkable Mazda sat in the space, painted an unassuming gray. When I'd first seen him, I'd have thought that the car that Warren would most likely have driven would have been a Mercedes or a BMW. My continuing impression of the man fit the vehicle perfectly. I clambered into the car. He got into the driver's seat. The ignition was started, and we drove off.

x x x x x x

As I had predicted, the ride was long and awkward in the extreme. I fiddled with the radio for a while, trying to find something else to focus on, but all of the stations were unfamiliar to me. When I had finally located a good rock channel, the air had become even _more_ stretched. I spent the rest of the way staring out of the window, watching as the car passed urban neighborhoods that seemed to melt together.

"Do you need anything?" I looked at the driver from the corner of my eye. "For school, I mean," he amended quickly.

I shrugged. "Dunno. Ah wasn' the one who received the school supplies list."

Worthington squirmed a little in his seat. "I suppose...I suppose that's true."

"Ah need new clothes." My voice was level, bored. It wasn't a lie...I barely had a couple of shirts and two pairs of jeans, all of them ill-suited for this New York weather. It just felt strange to be asked if I needed anything. The foster parents back home either didn't give a damn or had already provided it, leaving me no choice in personalization. I shook the comparison from my head.

Warren Worthington was suspicious. I had to keep that in mind; I couldn't just blindly trust him when I'd only known him for about a couple of hours.

We turned sharply onto a strip of pavement smoother than the roads. The car slowed. I glanced into the windshield, wanting to catch a glimpse of my new school. It was _huge_, about ten times the size of my old high school in Tupelo. The building was colossal, a flat wall about ten stories high. It flanked out in several wings, many of them newer additions that were at odds with the old, decorative style of the main building. The amount of students streaming to and from the school in lines must have been in the hundreds.

I would be just another face in the background; someone to easily disregard with all of the other misfits. All I had to do was keep to myself, and nobody would bother me. It was perfect.

I stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind me and joining the throng of students. I'd have to make a quick stop at the office before I went to my class, but that wouldn't be a problem. Upon entering the large double-doors, I was pushed along by the hurried people behind me until I ended up right in front of what I assumed to be the main office. It was a closed-off space with a glass door and several windows, offering a glimpse of the old women inside who sat behind a counter.

I pushed open the door, walking in confidently. Not one of them looked up. I sighed in annoyance, staring at the pair of women who were chatting noisily to each other in favor of answering the now ringing phone.

They both looked to be parental volunteers of some sort—each of them had hair on the short side, dyed to cover whatever white had started to show at their age. Instead of possessing the large pink or red talons of a Mississippi woman of their age, their nails were simply Frenched and their clothes were tasteful. Not of the My-Fake-Boobs-Are-Spilling-Out-Of-My-Top-Because-I'm-Trying-To-Compete-With-My-Sixteen-Year-Old variety I was used to in Tupelo.

...Why was I analyzing their fashion choices, again? I quickly grew frustrated.

"Hullo?" I snapped angrily, crossing my arms habitually. It didn't immediately earn their attention; the two were too busy gossiping though I knew that they'd heard me. I'd certainly cleared my throat loud enough. Several moments passed, each of them involving me becoming more and more pissed off.

It was ridiculous that the details of their job was standing right in _front_ of them, and yet they chose to ignore it. They should have been fired.

"It would be great if one of yah'll could tell meh where Ah'm s'pposed ta go?!" I growled loudly.

_Finally_, one of the women looked up, eyebrow raised. I tampered down the urge to curse at her. Her blue eyes gave me the once-over, settling on my face with a haughty expression.

"Nice accent." The woman behind her smothered a laugh. I openly rolled my eyes. Were these women stuck in fucking high school or something? Whatever the case, I still found myself preferring the hostility over the overly-cheesy smiles of the office ladies from back home.

"Just do yo' jobs an' tell meh where Ah gotta go," I groused watching as the the one who'd spoken immediately consulted the computer that sat in front of her.

"What's your name?"

"Anna-Marie...Worthington," I answered, the last part faltering on my tongue.

Was that my new last name? I didn't really know. I usually just signed my papers with the hasty scrawl of Anna-Marie and everyone seemed to know who it belonged to. I'd been reassigned to so many homes that I just dropped the last name altogether. In a school that looked like it had over a thousand students, though, I felt that I'd need one.

It apparently was my name, since a second later I was handed a few pieces of paper with my schedule and other student information printed on it. I checked the slip briefly, scanning over my classes and groaning aloud.

Worthington had entered me in all AP classes: Drama, AP Spanish, AP Science, AP English, AP Math, AP History, and P.E. It was like he was set on breeding some kind of well-mannered prep-schooler! And _drama, _of all things?

I decided then and there that I could do well without those last two classes. All I had to do was pick out a good back-alley and spend my time doing...something else. I didn't know what, but anything would beat sticking it out in useless P.E. or putting on a pretty costume for drama. Fuck _that_. Maybe I could find a decent person to "practice" on. I'd need it, _especially _if I planned on walking around at night, one of my old habits that would be hard to shake.

In Mississippi, something like that never would have happened. The memory sprung to mind once again, even more far away and hazy than before. Those haunting red eyes wouldn't leave me... I shook my head. Beating myself up for getting rusty wasn't going to help a bit. According to the schedule, I had Drama first. Which gave me about an hour of free time. I stalked out of the office without bothering to thank the two useless women who sat there.

When I walked back into the halls, they were empty. It didn't take a genius to figure out that classes must have already started. I ran my gaze down the length of the corridor.

The floor was a generic marble make, colored a creamy blue that matched the school's colors of blue, yellow, and white. All along the hall were sub-divisions and turn-offs, presumably leading off to classes and stairwells. There were no doors leading directly off of _this_ hall, though, so my chances of being caught were slim-to-none. The stretch of marble ended with a glass door about two hundred feet away. I could see from here that it lead outside; the dim outsource of sunlight was enough evidence. It probably faced the alley of the newer school building I had noticed when I arrived.

I made up my mind, walking over to the door. It was roughly a hundred feet away when I passed an alcove of white sinks and two impressions of doorways—obviously the bathroom—and several noises were brought to my attention. Namely, the sound of something being smashed, followed by a muffled cry.

I was content on simply passing by and writing up the sound as a mirror breaking or something until it happened again. The person was now sobbing desperately. I slowed, coming to a stop beside the farther door, where the disturbance was emanating. I was fully aware that I was eavesdropping, but the situation didn't seem right to me. When another pained scream reached my ears, I grit my teeth and barged in.

It was the boy's bathroom. The room itself was very roomy, about the size of an average classroom. Stalls were stacked next to each other neatly, two rows facing each other. There were about six sinks on each side, each with their own mirror and soap-dispenser. Automatic drying fans stood next to the rows of sinks, along with several urinals. It held the look and smell of been recently cleaned, the tiles beneath me polished freshly.

What immediately drew my eyes were what was happening on the left side of the sinks. Two people, one bent over the porcelain surface and the other holding them down. Though the one standing was covering most of the body, I glimpsed mahogany hair and a shapely figure, instantly recognizing the person as a girl. The sobs were coming from her; she was sniffling and moaning and crying like her gut had just been torn open.

It took me a while to realize that the corner of the sink was covered in blood. I stepped out of the doorway, now clearly visible to the mirror in front of the sink, my body outlined under the harsh lighting overhead.

Yes, it was a girl. Her bangs covered her eyes and face as she was held down to the sink, red liquid streaming from an unidentifiable source on her face. She was wearing some sort of a black-and-yellow dress that flared around her figure and a black sweater of some sort. In the mirror, the front of her outfit had been dyed red as she struggled weakly against the man.

The guy who pushed her to the sink had sandy, longish hair and pale eyes that were set in a cruelly contorted face. He was wearing a brown half-sleeved shirt that stretched over his burly figure and a pair of loose jeans. He could have easily been the captain of the football team with his muscled figure and intimidating, cocky stance. His gaze had moved to me as I stepped closer, morphing into an incredulous sneer.

"Who the fuck are you?! What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was brash, loud, and malicious-sounding. I leaned onto the wall, crossing my arms nonchalantly.

"Had ta go ta the bathroom. Why dontcha tell meh what _yer _doin' here? Or, moh specificleh, what yer doin' ta that chick?" My eyes were narrowed into a glare that could freeze hell over. He didn't seem to get the hint.

"Kitty, do you know this bitch?" He seemed to be asking the girl underneath him. For the first time, she looked up at my reflection in the mirror under the man's loosened grip.

She was a _mess_. Blood spurted freely from her nostrils, creating the pool in the sink and the stains smeared all over her face and dress. Her eyes were bruised, the effects of having a broken nose, and a mixture of tears, ruined makeup, and snot blotched her otherwise pretty face. No recognition sparked in her brown eyes, but I could detect a small flash of something other than the liquid fogging her eyes. The girl shook her head "no."

"Then what the fuck are you doing still standing there? Get the hell outta here!"

"Not until yah tell meh what the hell it is yah'll are doin'. Somehow, Ah don' think Sam here is a willing parhtneh in yer kinkeh sex," I rebuffed.

I don't even know why I was doing it; I'd sure as hell never stepped in to protect the kids at my old school. Maybe I thought I could get in my daily dose of sparring practice with this bastard...

Hell, who was I trying to kid? I wanted to beat the shit out of this asshole because of his treatment of this small girl. I've always hated bullies, especially the kind who picked on the weak.

Anna-Marie, the school's personal defender of the weak. I inwardly scoffed. Not likely. I just like to kick the tar out of people. When they're assholes it gives me a reason.

"Just shut up and get outta here, you stupid hick. You wanna be in _her _position?" the man glowered, emphasizing his point by shoving the girl's face to the sink with force. She whimpered. I grit my teeth.

"Yah can try, yah asshole." My feet spread apart, automatically enhancing my balance. The cocky bastard grinned, actually _grinned_ from the prospect of fighting me. I guess we can safely say that this dick gets his jollies from beating around women. He let up the "Kitty" girl, who was now sputtering wildly in the porcelain bowl. The burly man was cracking his knuckles, one by one.

Oh, was I going to enjoy _this_. I smiled sweetly, throwing a punch that landed on his square jaw. He didn't see it coming, staggering back immediately with a cry of surprise against the bloody sink. I smiled sweetly, rubbing the glove of my hand to try to dispel the recoil. _Damn_, I really was out of practice.

The brown-haired man kicked out clumsily with his leg in an effort to knock me off balance. I easily side-stepped him and stepped down on the tensed appendage, hearing a satisfying crack. The burly man yelled out in pain, pushing himself away and then blindly rushing at me. I was too slow to dodge, and he tackled me to the floor, crushing and pounding every bit of me he could get in his reach.

I knew that I couldn't possibly push him off—he was about two hundred pounds of muscle. I struggled futilely in his steel grip, attempting to use my legs as leverage or to get him to dislodge in some way...

He gave a throaty grunt of agony as my foot struck his crotch, spinning off of me and onto the floor. I quickly scrambled to my feet, hovering over his curled body triumphantly. He groaned. I smirked.

"...bitch..."

"Couldn' get aneh moah creative than that?"

Silently, I cursed the stupid bastard. He'd gotten in a several good punches, and I was willing to bet a hundred dollars that I had a few good bruises. That, and I'd fought dirty. If I hadn't kneed him, he would've won. I mulled over the thought bitterly. This guy certainly wasn't any kind of trained fighter; he was clumsy and slow, almost depending entirely on his brute strength. I was worse-off than I thought.

The boy lurched to his feet and left the bathroom, throwing a dirty glare at both of us but too emasculated to say anything. I turned my attention to the girl bent over the white bowl.

"Yah okay?" I reached out a gloved hand to help her listless body up, only to have it smacked. The brunette spun around and slapped me again, this time on my face. The sting of the action seemed to ring in my ears and along the large space of the bathroom.

"You stupid_ bitch!_" shrieked the girl hysterically between broken sobs. I stared at her dumbly. Didn't I just _help _her? Was I missing something?

"What the hell? Din' Ah just—?"

"You fucking _whore! _What the fuck did you do that for?!" The crying teenager launched herself at me, manicured claws bared. I effortlessly side-stepped the attack, latching onto her arm and twisting it behind her back, shoving the crazy chick to the wall before she could cause any more damage than what had already been accomplished by her stupid prick boyfriend.

She made a little distressed whine. I tightened my grip on her wrists and disregarded the stripe of red fluid that was now striped against the wall. The girl began to protest loudly, blubbering and screaming like a fucking banshee. I would have clamped my hands over my ears if I wasn't so sure that she was either going to kill herself or endeavor to kill _me _if I released her.

"Shut the fuck up! Dear Jesus _Christ_, yah want meh ta knock yah unconscious?!" I yelled, shoving her form to the tile to get her to be quiet.

If someone heard her and saw the mess in the restroom, there would be no doubt that I was the culprit. One look at my files and I'd have "heartless, aggressive bitch" written all over me. Which ultimately translated to: not good, possibly ending in me getting sent to a detention center or even kicked out. Neither of those options really appealed to me when it was only my first day in this stupid school.

The girl's cries quieted to hiccups with my brass words. I assumed that after watching me kick the ass of her brawny boyfriend, she knew that I'd have no trouble handing her hers on a platter.

"Now tell meh jus' what the hell that was when Ah walked in. Start at the beginnin'," I growled sternly. I was pretty sure that the soreness that my brain was suffering from her ear-piercing shrieks was going to stay with me the whole day. The little slut had officially pissed me off, bleeding or no bleeding.

Her head bobbed mutely, and I eased off of her a bit, no longer crushing her to the bathroom wall.

"That was my boyfriend, Lance Alvers," she murmured quietly, a saddened sort of touch to it. I didn't have to see her to know that there were more tears streaming from her eyes. I scoffed and gave an eye-roll.

"Ah gathered that when yah called meh a 'fuckin' ho,' honeh," I muttered caustically. What? Just because she was _crying _didn't mean I had to be nice to her.

"Yeah...so..."

"So...what?"

A loud sniffle broke out from the small girl, along with a fresh round of wracking sobs. "I-I don't w-wanna..." I stood still for a moment, at a loss of what to do. I released her wrist with a sigh, turning around the distressed girl. She hid her face from me, but I noticed with slight revulsion that whatever was exposed was all pink and snotty, a wet mixture of blood and tears. I searched around briefly before tearing out a piece of paper towel from a nearby dispenser, dampening the rough cloth under a faucet of a clean sink. I quietly wiped away the pathetic girl's runny makeup with the paper. It was an uncharacteristic moment of kindness.

I took a moment to study her face. The brunette had a small, heart-shaped face with round blue eyes and pouting lips. Her hair was brown-blonde and hung in wavy rings down her back, weaving in and out of the multitude of beads around her neck. She was petite and small and I was pretty sure, what with the way she was dressing and her antics, that she was with the "in" crowd.

Great. First day of school and I was pretty sure that I was going to be traded around in the gossip stories. I was shaken from my sour realization when she mumbled something weak and incoherent under her breath.

"What?"

"I said...I'm _pregnant."_ Her eyes were all big and glassy, and the despondent situation she was in hit me like an eighteen-wheeler. All of the sympathy I felt when I saw her being beaten by her boyfriend unexpectedly morphed into fury and disbelief.

"What the hell d'yah mean, _pregnant?!_" My loud words echoed back a thousand times in the large space. The stupid girl just shrunk back quiveringly as I fought the urge to shake her, remaining infuriatingly silent. She looked terrified of me. I took a deep breath.

"Yah let him get yah pregnant, an' then he wen' ape shit." The girl nodded. I sighed again, ready to deliver the speech that I hoped would set her straight.

"Yah're Kitteh, righ'?" Another nod. "Look, Kitteh, Ah'm not gonna lie ta yah. Yah're an idiot an' yah're a bitch." Kitty gasped, a scandalized expression forming on her cute features. She opened her mouth, and I would bet my shoes that she was getting ready to deliver the "but I'm the victim!" ploy.

"No, yah listen ta _meh_ on this. Yer boyfriend's a bastahd. If he beats yah 'cause yah're pregnant, than chances ah that he ain't up tah bein' a fathah."

"But...I _love _Lance!" blubbered Kitty. I was seriously debating on whether or not to shove my gloved fist into her mouth, if only to get her to stop with the manipulative act.

"Yeah. An' yah got pregnant as soon as yah though' he was gonna leave yah, too, righ'?" _It would explain why you came charging at me the second I kicked his ass out of here. I came between you and your fucked up "plan."_

Yes, contrary to popular belief, I was _not_ stupid. Especially when it came to sniffing out things like people's dirty little secrets. I watched with growing impatience as she lied through her teeth, the fear in her eyes obviously magnified at being found out.

"Wh-what are you, like, talking about?! Lance—he just beat me. Like, physically _abused _me. And it's _his fault _that I'm—"

"What? Are yah sure yah din't _invite it? _Yah know, tell 'im yah're on the Pill or somethin' an' then purposely get _pregnant?_"

"Wh-what—? How...?" I ground my teeth. Now she wasn't even _trying _to deny it, instead sputtering unintelligibly at me.

"So were yah tryin' tah frame him here or did he jus' punch yah after he found out?" Her eyes narrowed, all previous wide-eyed helplessness suddenly gone.

"'Course, if it'd been meh, I'da practiced mah fists on yah good an' nice. Yah even think abou' the baby?" Kitty was silent, glaring at me through her red eyes. I regretted having "saved" her—then again, if I hadn't come then I wouldn't have the chance to try to talk some sense into this bitch.

"What's it to you?! Why are you—You don't even _know _me! Mind your own fucking business!" _From weak victim to vicious bitch. This girl really knows how to flip the switch._

"Ah've seen yer kind befoh. Airheaded li'l bitches, too focused on struttin' yer fuckin' stuff. Yah don' even think 'bout the fuckin' kid yer carryin'! An' all ta win back a fuckin' boy in fuckin' high school! D'ya even think about what kinda life this kid is gonna grow up ta have? Are ya gonna give it up?! Are ya jus' gonna walk away from the mess yah've caused?!"

My throat was hoarse, my breathing ragged, and she just sat there with a bored look on her little face like she wasn't even listening. My hands itched to cause even more damage to her stupid face if only to teach her a lesson. But like I've said, I've _dealt _with her kind before: the mother of the Johnston family, the bitchy cheer leading squad back home...they were all mentally grounded in this imaginary version of high school.

Everything that they did was subsequently done to one-up the others. It was immature and it was utterly fucking retarded that anyone would dedicate their life choices to their effects in the present. Hell, my birth mother...my birth mother was probably the same way. And when the past choices caught up with her, she thought she could make it go away by getting rid of me at the first trash can in sight.

I'd long gotten over the fact that my mother had never wanted me; even when I had been upset about it, I was always more _angry _than _sorrowful_. I knew that if I ever did meet my birth mother, I wouldn't ask her why, why she gave me up. The answer was going to be shallow and petty, because those are the kind of women who get pregnant and then get abortions. No, I'd most likely look at everything she's ever done—and then go out and do the exact opposite. I never wanted to make the same mistake as her, one that I was paying for. One that Kitty's child would be paying for.

I glared at her expectantly, almost _daring _her to give me a reason to get pissed at her. The startled look in her blue eyes was there for a grand total of two seconds before she left, throwing a haughty glance over her shoulder.

"Do yer kid a favoh, hon. Get an abortion!" I managed to shout venomously after her, a scowl pulling my sore mouth down. Women like her...

I turned away from the bathroom door and checked the plain, cheap digital watch fastened around my wrist. I still had roughly twenty minutes to kill.

I surreptitiously stole a glance at the mirror to check the damage on my face, immediately flinching at the sight. It certainly _looked_ like I'd been in a fight. I had split, swollen lips and a bruised eye. Most of the damage, though had been done to my stomach, where I could feel tender bruises brushing up against the cloth of my t-shirt. Damn, that kid must have been strong. Maybe I could explain it all away with a nasty trip?

I just hoped that this Kitty chick wasn't too high on the gossip totem pole. I wasn't particularly hungry for any infamy to start up around me now. I grudgingly stalked out of the tiled room, mulling over what I'd just gotten myself into.

"Hey! You!" Who was that? I darted a glimpse at the originator of the voice and cursed. A damn teacher was waving wildly at me. I stopped and spun around. He was at the other end of the hall, but from here I could tell that he was perfectly ordinary, embodying the exact "boring teacher" archetype.

A pair of plain khaki slacks and a white Oxford made up his uninspired outfit, his thick glasses catching the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead harshly. As for his face: he had brown hair and brown eyes, set into a proportional but average head. I knew just by looking at him that he was going to be one of those rule-fanatics. And it was just my luck that a teacher like that had caught me outside of a blood-splattered boy's restroom with several cuts and injuries on top of cutting class.

I was pretty much screwed. And although I could barely hear over the angry mutterings coming from the flustered teacher in front of me as he dragged me to the front office, I could _swear_ that I heard a chuckle from behind me.

Chalking up another point to my lately over-active imagination, I didn't turn around.

x x x x x x

Yep, Kitty's a bitch. And no, that's not the last we've seen of her.

Northstar, Jubilee, Avalanche and Scott are also going to make appearances. At least, that's what I'm planning on doing...


	5. Fan Club

A.N./ Longest chapter so far...and I hate it.

I dunno, it just seems so...wrong? I am not very confident in my Gambit-writing skills (considering this is my first time writing him...). Rogue already seems a bit OOC.

Hmm.

**Disclaimer: **None of these characters belong to me (GASP!) All are property of MARVEL, and to an extension, Stan Lee.

Yeah because, OH SNAP, don't tell me you didn't see that one coming.

Any French spewing forth from Remy's or Jean-Paul's lips is from Babelfish. So it's probably incorrect.

_**--**_

_**CHAPTER **_**4:**

F a n C l u b

For the next two weeks, that damn man followed my every move like he was trained in the art of being a fucking child stalker.

Mr. Summers was hellbent on "catching me in the act." Apparently, he was one of the only ones who bothered to _read_my havoc-filled student record. I struck it up to his impending mid-life crisis despite the fact that he couldn't have been over twenty-five. He must've had a pole shoved so far up his ass that it gave him high-blood pressure, knocking off twenty-odd years from his lifespan. He _acted _like he was fifty, at any rate.

Whatever—point was, for the first half of the month I was forced to attend the two classes I wanted so badly to drop. Attending Drama was further proof to my initial assessment that it was stupid, and attending P.E. was further proof to my initial assessment that it was useless. Yet every time I tried to duck out of the period, Summers appeared. It was annoying, to say the least.

But if it wasn't my inability to cut class, it was Kitty Pryde and her band of juvenile harpies. Or rather, it was the band of juvenile harpies, _including_Kitty Pryde. She wasn't Queen Bee. She was just the resident gossip, which stuck me in a bad position because of two things.

One: by the end of the first three _days_, she'd somehow convinced the entire school that it was I, "that horrible piece of trailer trash," who had broken her nose and bloodied up the clean surfaces of the boy's bathroom. Two: as a direct result of her spreading these falsities, I was now one of the most infamous and/or famous people in the school. While the bitch squad and the preps sent me dirty glares, a majority of the kids—most of whom I'd never seen _in my life—_smiled at me, said hello, or even attempted to high-five me.

My goal to blend in and ride out the rest of my high school days quietly was shot to burning, dazzling, exploding flames. I had to watch open-mouthed as it crashed and burned.

Things weren't all that great on the home-front, either (if I could even call it that). Worthington frequently left without rhyme or reason, disappearing off to his "work." While I wasn't all too thrilled about him, my earlier feelings of mistrust about the weighed-down man only intensified.

Where did he work? His car was always left in the garage, the keys stowed above the refrigerator "for your use," he always maintained. These long leaves of absence bothered me, little theories and suspicions niggling away at the back of my mind like worms at an apple. What did he even _do?_ I never talked to him, but his one-sided conversations always revolved around meaningless small talk.

And when I wasn't sneaking around the house, there were the dreams. A few days after I arrived, I came back from school to find that the small bedroom on the first floor had been fully furnished with a low queen-size bed, a few dressers, and a standing closet. I'd gone shopping already, and the dresser was now full of my standard black, the clothing adjusted for the cold weather up north. I now slept downstairs, my bed situated right next to a window that faced the back of the house and its non-existent yard.

The first couple of nights, I had no problems going out like a light and being woken up for school the next day. That luxury soon flew out the window. Horrible nightmares began the minute I was asleep. I often woke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, yet I never knew the source of my strange dreams simply because I never remembered them.

Each and every time I jolted awake, though, I couldn't shake the crazy sensation that I was being watched. That tell-tale tingle that flitted down my spine and into the pit of my stomach whenever I peered out into the dark of the window, only able to make out the faint lines of the brick wall it faced. I convinced myself that whenever the memory of those vivid red eyes flashed before me that it was my dream-fogged mind endeavoring to place a reason for my awful gut feeling.

I felt a twinge of the same kind of trepidation just thinking about it while I ambled down the hallway.

"'Ello, Anna!" called out the oddly cheery voice of one of the said unknown kids, mockingly or serious, I couldn't tell. I involuntarily glance his way. He was tall, lanky and dressed in copious amounts of black. The thought that half of the school probably expected me to hang out with the fellow Goth/Emo misfits entered and then quickly left my brain.

I settled on simply glaring at his backside as he passed by, a wide grin splitting his face. More and more weirdos like that one...or was it _just _that one?

I walked into Drama fifteen minutes late. The teacher, Mrs. Copeland, was pretty much used to my slacker attitude having been served a hefty dose of it for the last ten days. We were pretty much on equal terms with each other: we both knew that I hated Drama, and that given the choice I wouldn't even be there.

So she ignored me, as usual, and I sat reading an Ann Rice novel for the entire rest of the class period. When I finally left, though, it appeared that Mr. Summers had given up on trying to hound me. He wasn't in sight. I suppressed a smile, already planning on skipping P.E. later that day.

x x x x x x

It was a good day in New York, noticeably sunny for January as I pushed open the door that lead outside. I breathed in the air, the distinct smell of the city filling my nostrils. Filth, car-engine exhaust, the nearby pizzeria... It wasn't perfect, but at least it wasn't Physical Education in a gym that smelt like burnt rubber. Though there was plenty of that smell here as well. It took me all of five seconds to realize that someone was smoking out here, in the cozy alley between school buildings.

I glanced around and groaned. There, leaning casually against the brick wall, was that strange emo guy who kept trying to give me a high-five. He hadn't noticed me yet, too busy on taking a drag to look my way. He would soon, however, especially if I kept standing here like a slack-jawed idiot who'd never seen someone smoking before.

I snuck a look behind me at the glass door, seeing the end of the hallway, where the front office's door was being pushed open. I caught a glimpse of loose khaki slacks and my decision was made for me. It would be hell to receive another lecture from Mr. Rulebook, not to mention the prospect of after-school detention (something I'd inevitably skip, but _still.)_

My back slid against the wall and I could _feel _his head turn to me with his usual stupid grin in place. I twisted my body only to direct a fierce look at his form. He looked to be of medium height, with pale skin, dark eyes, and a dark mop of hair. I guess I could say that he was cute, but he was a tad too girly for my tastes. Nope, I preferred my boys tall, dark, and rough. Southerners were always a plus, too.

Besides, who the hell wore a t-shirt when it was below fifty degrees outside? I myself was wearing a green off-the shoulder sweater, a black dress, tights, knee-high boots, a thick red scarf, a pair of gloves and I was _still _cold. I guessed that it might have had something to do with my Mississippi roots, but it didn't change my shivering.

The stupid man's smile only became wider. I watched as he dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his shoe before sauntering over to me.

"'ello z'ere, Anna. What arr you doing here?" Hm. He had a French accent. Funny how I didn't notice before. Maybe I was too busy firing off a "shut up" or "leave me alone" in a preemptive reply to hear much of anything that came out of this boy's mouth.

"What's it ta yah, Frenchie? Leave meh the hell alone," I muttered crabbily. "Go an' smoke yahr cig or somethin'." I kept my head from straying in his direction, but it snapped up when he started laughing. I bristled.

"What? What's so funneh?!" I hissed, careful not to be too loud.

"You. You s'ink _vous_ _êtes si spé__cial _**(1)**_,_" He snickered again. I stared at him.

"Yah wanna run that by meh again? An' speak English this time," I snapped. To my surprise, he sank into a low bow. Okay, so now I knew that he was _definitely _mocking me.

"Jean-Paul Beaubier. And I already know _your _name, hmm? Anna?"

"Ah'm regrettin' tha' fact already. And it's Anna-Marie," I muttered. Jean-Paul smiled again. "Well, az much az I did enjoy finally meeting you..." He pushed his lanky body off of the bricks and meandered away. I briefly wondered just where the hell he was going; the door leading back to school was right_ here_. Jean-Paul Beaubier was strange.

I sighed and looked around. There really was nothing to do. I temporarily considered running back in to collect the book I was reading in Drama, then dropped the idea. My locker was virtually on the other side of the huge campus, and it would take me twenty minutes to get it and then walk back. I'd start believing in God again if there weren't any teachers that happened to catch me there, either. So that gave me, what, half an hour to kill?

I drummed my fingers impatiently on the stony brick, a slight breeze that had escaped into the tucked-away area of the alley space chilling my Southern bones to the core. I looked around restlessly, suddenly feeling very stupid for just _standing here_. What kind of person skips class, _gym class_, just to stand around like an idiot?

One thing that never left my sight was the still-smoking trail of the joint that lay innocuously on the pavement. Didn't the Frenchie just stamp that out? Wasn't it going to, I don't know, spontaneously catch fire or something? If I just went over there, picked it up, and threw it away, I'd have something to do for five minutes...

Do you see what boredom does to people, or more specifically, _me?_ I was having an inner debate on whether or not to throw away a cigarette! What kind of person does that?! All I had to do was carry the argument out loud and I'd be committed. _Stupid cigarette. _

I sighed, throwing up my hands in defeat and bent over to pick it up.

Suddenly, I felt a thrill shaking my spine that had nothing at all to do with the weather. I instantly straightened, my head snapped up to the ridge of the building right in front of me. My gut churned threateningly as I tipped my neck back in my struggle to see the rooftop about eleven stories away. Instincts told me that something was up there...

A light scraping sound echoed shortly in the confined space. I rotated clumsily on my feet, my heart lodged in my throat. The area of my shoulder that had been decorated with writing burned; it was my first night all over again. But it didn't make sense—there was nobody in sight, nobody to fight against.

My emerald sweater was lifted in a gust of wind too unnatural to be generated by the chilly New York climate, yet there was a strange kind of heat radiating onto my back.

_Someone was standing right behind me_.

I immediately circled around, prepared to duke whoever thought it might be _funny _to sneak up on a _girl _in an abandoned _alleyway_, only to have my hasty movement halted with a hand that had come up from _nowhere _to block my own. The reaction time was almost super-human.

"Don' tell me you're a smoker too, now, _chere,_" a low, languid voice drawled into the shell of my ear. My mind completely blanked out. I barely managed to fight my body's immediate shivers. It was _fucking cold _outside and the freak decides to breathe his hot air onto my sensitive skin?! Anybody would shiver in my position!

With a bit of anger at myself, I brought the edge of my foot up to where I estimated the person's shin was, only to be met with air.

A long line of French was exclaimed from the one who stood behind me. I used the distraction to propel myself _the fuck _away from there.

"_Christ_, I wasn' gonna _do _nothin'!" protested the alarmed voice.

"Oh yeah?! What the hell wouldja sneak up on someone like that for, yah—" _bastard, asshole, shit head, fucker... _I skidded to an abrupt halt, unexpectedly face-to-face with the man I was about to cuss out.

My words died on my tongue. I was staring straight into a pair of ruby red eyes set into a handsome face and the feeling of déjà vu overwhelmed me. Those scarlet orbs had been haunting my dreams and nightmares, the ones that seemed burned into my memory. It was so fuzzy in my head, though, a brief flash of red that could very well have belonged to anything, even my imagination.

He was looking at me expectantly with those same haunting eyes and I was forced to keep my calm composure. I studied his face, searching for similarities even when I knew I'd never seen him before.

The first thing I noticed about him was his height. The guy _towered _over my average height of five-six; he was a couple inches over six feet at least. His long, dark trench coat and black jeans made it impossible for me to properly discern his figure, but from what I'd felt when I was pressed against him he was a column of lean muscle.

The face perched on top of his broad shoulders was a nice one; symmetrical, sharp-featured and fairly chiseled. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw under strands of nutmeg-brown hair, his lips twisted in a smirk as the seconds went by.

And I just realized that I'd been checking out the guy who'd, for all intents and purposes, just tried to jump me. I quickly reassembled my face to resemble caustic speculation, never mind the blush that was heating my face. He certainly was _hot_, I'd give him that. But not much else. After all, the man did just silently pop out of nowhere: standard procedure for kidnapping attempts.

I spun away from him and began to stalk off, completely content to ignore him. I wasn't really the kind of person who dealt with their problems, especially issues that revolved around a possible stalker/savior. His large hand closed around my gloved wrist.

"What?" I muttered crossly, clearly projecting the "back off or else" vibe. He didn't seem to get it, the same smirk fitted snugly on his face. Seriously, what was with it today? Two different guys just _waiting _to antagonize me. And they both spoke _French, _too.

"Let's get you away from de cigarette, eh?Wouldn' want ya ta get second-han', now, woul' we?"

"What makes yah think that Ah wasn' smokin' it mahself?" He gave me an incredulous look; the kind most accomplished authors shoot at the works of Stephenie Meyer. I felt like a pouting child under that stare. I chided myself for being so affected by the perception of a _complete and total stranger_...well, one that I thought had grown fond of watching me lately.

Of course, that could just be my paranoia talking, and if it was then why make a total crazy out of myself? I reminded myself again that I shouldn't have to care what this stupid Cajun had to think about me.

"What? Yah don' think Ah can smoke?!" I honestly had no idea why I was so worked up over the fact. He could've been offhandedly complimenting me, but I took it as an insult. The man chuckled.

"C'mon, _chere_. You about as harmless as a bag o' kittens." I caught the movement of his gaze as they traveled over my layered form, and he laughed again when I blushed profusely.

In that one instant, I was burning to prove him _wrong. _I sauntered over to where the half-smoked wad of tobacco lay and bent to pick it up, never once removing my eyes from his. I held the cigarette expertly in between my index and middle finger, bringing it up to take a slow drag of the cancer-causing death stick.

Of course I'd smoked before. When I was fifteen I'd been shoved into the house of two very avid smokers who always left their ash-trays and stubbed-out cigarette butts. I was left alone one day and had always been curious as to the draw of the awful-smelling things. I took one puff—and was sent into a coughing fit for fifteen minutes. I decided right then and there that I'd never smoke one ever again.

Funny how things work out. Here I was, smoking a stupid half-cigarette all in the name of my wounded pride. I couldn't take not being regarded as a hard ass here; I couldn't take not being a _hard ass. _Back home I could easily kick everyone's ass all the way to Cancun if I wanted to. Here...here I would've died, if not for the man in front of me. A guy who just keeps insulting whatever little dignity I had left.

I took a deep draw on the cig, squashing down my body's strong urge to hack and cough my lungs out. My eyes teared up, irritated with the fumes and chemicals emanating from it. I let out my breath, gratefully sucking down the comparatively fresh air that New York had to offer. It was torture. But at least it would be worth it.

_Ha. Take that._ Instead of seeing the confused/awed/slightly afraid expression that I was expecting, an amused smile adorned his features.

"Okay_, cous m'aves prouvé __mal _(2)_._ Now come wit' me," his hand returned to grip at my wrist, dragging me away to some undisclosed destination.

I swear I could have punched him right then and there, my frustration was so great. It was the accumulation of all the shit that went down in this hellhole, and this guy was the last _fucking_ straw.

"What the hell d'yah mean, come with yah?! Ah don' even fuckin' _know _yah! An' yah expect meh ta jus' up an' _leave?!"_

He smiled mischievously.

"Well, _chere, _it be pretty obvious how dis goes. You're _une rebel_, an' I'm de good guy who goes aroun', reformin' _people _like you. So I'm takin' you to de supermarket, where we can get you off de cigarettes."

What. _The. _Fuck.

"No! I don' wanna go _anehwhere _with a _freak _like _you_! Jus' lemme go an' leave meh the hell alone!"

x x x x x x

I sat, arms crossed, outside of _Lucky's General Store _exactly forty-five minutes later. I knew that because I'd been checking my cheap wrist-watch every minute for the past twenty-five minutes.

Why had I let him lead me here in the first place? Now I had to wait outside, _alone_, while some stranger bought me nicotine gum for an addiction I didn't have. I should'vejust hanged my dumb ass pride, because I had no idea where the hell I was or how to get back to the school. Just one look at the places it took me...

I shifted uncomfortably on my seat: a chipped metal bench located just outside the brick building, casting a wary glance at the semi-deserted side street.

The grocery wasn't situated in what I'd call a "good" part of town; everything from the telephone at the public telephone pole to the bench I was sitting on was nailed down to prevent possible theft.

Graffiti painted dramatic and mostly crude messages on the public shops and buildings; small, cramped houses were squashed together due to lack of space. It wasn't as trashed as the street I'd wandered into on the first day, but I felt a growing sense of nervous tension fill my body. My mind was flashing in and out of the foggy memory of that night, and I grew more and more tense.

I darted a look into the glass of the front door, wondering what the hell was taking the guy so long. His tall figure was slouched over the checkout counter, torso supported by his elbows. I could only see the slim back and blonde ponytail of the sales clerk, but I could bet my left foot that the asshole was flirting with her.

Her fluffy tail kept bouncing up and down as she nodded enthusiastically or made some other ridiculous head-movement to the man's wide smile. My gloved hands were itching to wrap around his stupid neck, all previous trepidation abandoned in my blind anger.

Great, one step above being dragged to the bad part of town by a complete stranger was being dragged to the bad part of town with said stranger, who happened to fancy tramping out his services to anyone who happened to own a vagina.

So now I could totally cross out the vague impossibility that he was trying (in an unconventional way) to pick me up, maybe because he thought I was pretty or unique or-or-...I dunno! I guess a tiny part of me was hoping for something stupid along those lines; the girly, hopeless-romantic part of Anna-Marie. The same part of me that, in a sense, longed to fill the lonely void that Bobby had left after he'd, well, used me.

A small ache pinched my chest, and I forced myself to think about something else. I glanced into the shop window again...only to see the guy receiving a scrap of paper with an indiscernible line of writing scrawled across it. The salesclerk's number?

The re-insertion of my rage gave me plenty to think about. Mainly, ways I could have been spending the past thirty-five minutes of my wasted life. Stupid, cocky, self-assured, creepy, hot—

Before I could continue my productive activity of melting the bench space beside me with my imaginary laser beams, there was a peal of bells behind me. I jumped to my feet and whirled around, catching the man with a vicious stare. He was smiling, waving a thin package that looked like gum from gloved hands.

Completely ignoring my death glare.

I inwardly flinched. Nobody here seemed to take me seriously. I opened my mouth, prepared to unleash hell on this man and demanding to be taken home. I was swiftly interrupted.

"I'm feelin' like some dinner. Wha' 'bout you, _chere?_" He affixed me with an intense gaze of red and a surge of warmth filled my stomach, like I'd just chugged something really warm. I felt the sensation tingle along my spine, along my nerve-endings, and a pleasant humming engulfed my senses.

It had overtaken my irritation, that same something urging me to just give up and go with him. It was like I wasn't even in control of my own body anymore.

I felt myself nod, feeling light-headed and bizarre. He started walking, and I was compelled to follow him. I didn't even try to resist.

x x x x x x

"Who are yah, anehway?" I found myself asking curiously after taking a generous swig from the soft drink that I held in my hands. The liquid burned, especially cold on a night in January, but I savored the feeling.

It was seldom this freezing in Mississippi, yet even on the cold days I never passed up a cold glass of Coke. Besides, the diner we were in had the heaters on full-blast. I'd need the cool drink soon enough.

The mysterious man sitting across from me just gave a small smirk, but offered up no answer. I snorted.

"If yah think the whole 'tall, dark and mysterious' thing does it for meh, yah're sadleh mistaken. Ah usually make it a point not ta associate with strange guys," I declared.

His eyebrow raised. "Oh? Then should I consider myself lucky?"

"Definitely."

Internally, there was a part of me that wondered what the hell I was doing, flirting with a guy whose name I didn't even know, or even worse, who wouldn't _tell _me his name. Yet that same obligatory sense was making me play along. I wasn't worried at all about getting too close to this person—in fact it was just the _opposite. _

I swirled around the ice in my drink, gazing at the man from underneath my eyelashes. There it was again; I was being overpowered with the strangest sensation. My entire being was humming, just being with him. I couldn't recall any bad feelings towards him, there was only this drunken stupor. I could only go along with my actions, realizing what I was about to do after I had done it.

Weird. But I couldn't summon the panic I should have felt.

"So what's a Louisiana boy like yah doin' so far away from home?" I purred. He gave me a smug look, pleased about something. Maybe it was the fact that I was involuntarily fawning over him like a cat in heat. Still, the mortification of my total out-of-character words didn't come. Was it supposed to?

The russet-haired man leaned back confidently in his squishy red bench-seat, casually folding his arms behind his head.

"Not'in' much, _petite_. I could ask de same t'ing 'bout you, d'ough... Mus' be a lot cooler here den it is down south,"

I shrugged simply, allowing the loose neckline of my emerald sweater to flop about my shoulders. I noticed with satisfaction that his gaze was immediately drawn to the inches of skin I'd exposed with the action, though the emotion was foreign.

"Mah new foster parent lives here. He adopted meh a couple o' weeks ago." Another eyebrow joined the first.

"All de way up here 'n New York? Tha's pretty..._weird_..." I bobbed my head in agreement. "Ah know. Ah mean, Ah don' have a particularly good track record. An' for some complete stranger to adopt a kid all the way from Mississippi..."

"So, you sure dis guy's not some kinda sicko? Adoptin' you to get 'is jollies out?"

I was slightly surprised to hear that he didn't say "child-molester." Although, with the frequent looks he's been shooting my way I doubted he saw me as some kinda kid. He himself looked to be in his early twenties. If we ever hooked up, it would technically be considered statutory rape...

That thought didn't bother me at all. Actually, it kind of..._excited me? _

I giggled stupidly into my straw, creating a mess of bubbles that clinked around the ice. The man leaned forward, his sly smile widening. His eyes were focused intently on my lips, eyelashes lowered seductively.

My eyes connected with his for the first real time that night and my smile vanished, my mind engulfed into a heady stupor. A strange, warm buzz echoed pleasantly in my lower stomach, my skin suddenly like live wire. My clothes felt too clingy and itchy against my burning, tingling body. I didn't break the gaze. I couldn't.

Nothing registered in my brain except for those hypnotising ruby eyes. It was like my life had been circling around to this cheap restaraunt, to the insanely attractive man sitting right across from me.

I blinked and his arm was pushing away the Coke in front of me. He leaned closer, and my body hummed with insistent, desperate need. My breathing became heavier, as if I were drawing in water instead of air and the sound of my rapidly pumping heart drowned over the sound of old music playing from the jukebox in the corner.

I no longer felt my chipped nails scratch over the vinyl tablecloth or my boots slide across the floor; some long-buried primal sense propelled my form towards his, forcing my eyes to become half-lidded under his hooded stare. His head angled, a slight smile tilting up the corners of the lips that were approaching mine. I felt the moist heat of his breath and my eyelids fluttered steadily closed...

"Hiya! May I take your order?"

Only to be ripped open again with a start.

The noise penetrated the fog that had settled over my mind. Those electric, stomach-deep feelings had been banished and replaced with a cold, hollow feeling, like someone had dropped an icy stone into my gut. My heart was still hammering as I jumped back to my seat in alarm, not watching as the red-eyed man sank into his chair with a dissimilar sort of disappointment.

What the fucking hell was _that?!_ Was I really just about to make out with a complete _stranger _in _public?! _I was thoroughly startled; the waitress stood there for a few moments with a smile graciously painted on her face before I snapped out of it.

"Uhh...yeah, um..." I floundered pathetically, quickly scanning the menu in front of me. "D'yall have aneh fried chicken?"

"Yep," she chirped, smiling politely, though I could see the slight concern behind her brown eyes. She was really pretty, I realized as I tried to avoid the eyes of the man.

She was short, maybe an inch or two over five feet, but with pixie-like features and upturned almond-shaped eyes, a small, pointed chin, and a little button nose. Her spiky, short hair was sticking up in all angles under a pair of neon goggles in a uniquely Asian style, and I could even identify a pair of sparkly periwinkle leg warmers under her ski-boots.

She smiled brightly. "Comin' right up!"

And then she flounced away. I watched her back intently, not daring to meet his red eyes again. I flushed with embarrassment, remembering that just a few seconds ago, I'd been flirting with him shamelessly.

How far would it have gone if I hadn't regained control? I felt another wave of hot humiliation wash over me. The whole situation was bizarre. I clenched my sweaty palms under the table and kept my head ducked until the food was delivered later in what had to be the ten most uncomfortable minutes of my life. I eagerly began scarfing down the crispy chicken, even if it wasn't anywhere near as good as they made it down south.

"How is it?"

I sidled a cautious glance at the handsome man. After a moment of deliberation, I swallowed hastily and answered.

"Good. Not anehthing like Ah'm used ta, but it's pretteh good for up north."

He laughed, almost bringing my gaze to his strange eyes. I was careful to catch myself, though, focusing on the space just above the bridge of his straight nose.

"You're talkin' as if you been to dis state befo'."

"An' jus' how d'yah know that Ah _haven't?"_I bit back testily, crossing my arms. This time, when his gaze faltered to my chest I felt a surge of indignation, when scant moments before I had a sense of victory.

His hands rose in exaggerated defense. "Whoa, whoa, _chere_. I'm not tryin' to bite!"

"So?"

"So, no need to flex your claws," he chuckled again. My eye twitched.

I asked the question that had been burning my mind ever since he dragged me to the supermarket. "Why did yah take meh here?"

He shrugged. "You looked bored." I balked at him.

"An' yah jus' pick up aneh girl on the street if she looks _bored_." It was a skeptical statement, not a question, that was punctuated with a magnificently sarcastic raised eyebrow on my part.

"_Non_, I pick up any _femme _on de street if she be _assez. _Pretty."

"Yah soun' an awful lot like this guy Ah knew...an' he was a rapist..." I dead-panned. He laughed again and I pursed my lips.

"Wha'? You serious?"

I smiled tightly at his slightly shocked expression, taking the opportunity to eye him suspiciously without directly meeting his eyes. Something about them unnerved me; the first time I had swept over them passingly I felt an unsettling jolt in the pit of my stomach—a jolt that magnified what little attraction I had for him to a Jello-knee, heart-bursting need. And because of that, I'd agreed stupidly to everything he'd said, turning into a pathetic, simpering female just being in his presence.

"What's yahr name?"

"You already asked me dat," he sang chidingly. I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Yah jus' dragged meh all the way out ta a place Ah've never been, where it'd be impossahble for meh ta go home without getting' lost. Ah have no choice but ta rely on a complete stranjah. Considerin' Ah jus' spent the las' two hours with yah, Ah think Ah've earned a righ' ta know yahre _name." _

He opened his mouth, no doubt about to spurt off another self-assured line, when the Asian waitress bounded up to us.

She smiled secretively and asked standard waitress questions: how the food was, if we needed extra drinks, etc. Her questions were almost automatic, though, and didn't match her mischievous big eyes or small smirk. The way her gaze kept darting between me and Mr. I'm-Too-Sexy-For-My-Name, it was like she was sizing us up...or putting two-and-two together.

"We're not dating!" I blurted quickly, without any prompting whatsoever from the waitress. To my utter mortification, instead of my voice reflecting the utter horror I was feeling, it came out as all whiny and girlie and _embarrassed_.

It was one of _those _moments.

The ones that happen in all those chick-flick/chick-lits, where the heroine goes to a restaurant/park/public place and there is a waitress/old couple/envious gossiping harpy who makes a cutesy comment on the heroine and the drop-dead sexy hero of the novel? Which she, of course, vehemently denies, only heightening her "cute and innocent" appeal and making the drop-dead sexy guy laugh it off genially and play along because he secretly enjoys drawing reactions out of the heroine?

Not that I read any of that crap, of course. Well...maybe I _have_, but just once or twice. You can just pick up one or two of the romance novels and you're set for life, because I _swear _the same "situations" end up happening in all of them.

I could not, however, believe that it was happening to me. Where, oh where did my Bad Ass persona go? I was so disgustingly awkward. I mean, she didn't even _say _anything and I denied it! That's the equivalent of confessing that you have a body in your trunk when you're being given a ticket for speeding!

I silently sunk into the cushy leather of my seat as both the waitress and Red Eyes laughed it up.

"Quite a catch you got yourself there, Remy," she giggled.

"I know, righ'? Dat blush looks _magnifique _on her."

I couldn't aim one of my famous Hell-freezing glares at his eyes, so I stared at my Coke instead. I was _not blushing_. Damn that stupid—wait a minute.

"'Remy?'"

"Dat's me," called the Cajun. I laughed.

"Realleh? Like the _rat?_" I was referring to, of course, some Disney movie that I'd never seen before; one about a French rat that could cook. The mirth was hard to hold in, especially once I looked at his exaggerated frown. Even the short-haired Asian girl had joined in.

"_Non, _not like de rat from _Ratatouille_. Dat rat be named after _me_; I was on de scene way before dat movie! I'm de _original _Remy," he insisted childishly.

"Stop yah're poutin', rat."

"I am _not _a rat."

"Yah _are _a rat—a Swamp Rat," I declared coolly.

The waitress sniggered at my remark. "I'm going to have to remember that one,"

"Jus' get me my check," whined Remy. She mock-saluted him with a cheeky "yes, sir" and ambled off. I smirked into my glass as I took another deep swallow. He was back to staring at me with that little half-smile around the edges of his mouth. Somehow, though, I was comfortable. It was as if my mood had been spun around completely with that last bout of teasing. It was strange, but I didn't think to question it.

She came back around with the bill tacked to a board, and I noted with keen interest that instead of whipping out a credit card, Remy pulled out a bill of cash to pay with. That would have been not at all suspicious if it weren't for the fact that it was a _fifty dollar bill_.

I tried not to register my slight suspicion, but it rose immediate questions in my mind. Just what was a man doing walking around with fifty-plus dollars in New York, a city where anyone and everyone could get jumped anywhere, at any time? And why would he pay with that at a cheap diner like this, where the fried chicken and Coke was _five _dollars?

I could have just been paranoid, but then again, how paranoid can you get with a guy you've only just met? Then he told her to keep the change, and my feelings of mistrust suddenly had a reason to exist.

My stomach was fluttering, the fried chicken I'd just eaten settling uneasily in the bottom of my stomach. The little imaginary glimpses of scarlet I'd been seeing everywhere—in the corner of my eye, the the recesses of every alley—now felt less like hallucinations and more like premonitions.

It was hard to decide on my impression of him. My trusty gut feeling had been curiously silenced from the first moment I'd seen him, like something was pressing it down into the deepest part of my body, where it would be silenced.

"Take me home, Swamp Rat?" I hoped against all hopes that he wasn't a psycho rather foolishly, considering that I was the one who'd followed _him_.

Remy smiled crookedly, unfolding himself from his seat and already ambling over to the door.

x x x x x x

I was standing at my doorstep awkwardly. Awkwardly, but all-in-all in one piece.

My hands were fiddling at the neck of my knit scarf, tightening the material and then loosening it. I stood on the creaky stoop of Worthington's home, staring at the car I'd been driven home in. The red Audi glowed despite the lack of streetlight, reflecting what little rays of moonlight that filtered through the pollution clouds covering the sky. If I'd been looking, the driver's eyes probably would have been winking ostentatiously under the darkness as well—two charged, scarlet pebbles like flickering cat's eyes.

But I was avoiding them, of course, on that crazy instinct that was now going haywire in the frozen air. My tongue was tied in knots as I searched for the correct words to say.

_Goodbye?_ No, that didn't sound right. _Thank_-_you?_ I couldn't put the right kind of feeling behind those two words. It would sound like a question, or an accusation—and, damn it, why did I suddenly give a flying fuck about this?!

I darted a quick glance at the arm casually draped over the side of the car door (how long had I been standing there like a Special Needs kid?) and they rose from me effortlessly, like a wave of unwelcome vomit.

"Thanks, Swamp Rat. I guess...I needed that," I admitted shyly, my eyes meeting his briefly. There it was again: that cloying, almost desperate need and the surge of desire that accompanied it. At the same time, my brain was screaming at me and I had the taste of bile on my tongue.

"Anytime, _chere_," he replied dismissively, already pulling his car from the curb-side. "See you roun', hmm?"

And almost like it hadn't been there in the first place, the stylish vehicle sped off, me staring after it and wondering what the hell had just happened. I think I stood there for a good ten minutes before I couldn't feel my gloved fingers anymore before packing it in and heading inside. There was only one conviction about the mess my life has become that rang in my head.

New York was fucked up. And it was fucking _me _up.

x x x x x x

**Translations:**

**(1) "You s'ink _vous_ _êtes si spé__cial:" _You think you're so special**

**(2). "..._cous m'aves prouvé __mal:" _You've proved me wrong**

Not one, not two, but FOUR introductions! Jubilee's a waitress! Northstar's kind of an ass! Gambit's a creeper! Scott's a...TEACHER?!

I still don't know where I'm gonna go with that, but I thought it might be fun to have her challenge authority. For those of you who are wondering, yes, I do have a semblance of a plot, roughly sketched as an outline of sorts. Only up to chapter eight is really planned in terms of detail, though. So, most of the events that happen in each of them aren't set in stone and could easily be changed.

Basically, what I'm saying is that if you guys want a certain event to take place/for Anna-Marie to bitch/meet a certain character, go ahead and request it. I'm easily inspired and it has a good chance of happening (this is answering your question, lunamirrior).

On another note, sorry for the (kind of?) lateness! I know I said that I'd update the story days after the last chapter, I was just so damn disappointed with this chapter that I had to tinker around with it. And just for heads up, I probably won't update for awhile, or at least not until after April 10, mostly just because of a huge, mega-ass project due then that I have to complete.

**That's all for that (MEGA-HUGE) Author's Note. See ya next time!**


	6. Nighttime Visitation

A.N./ Yeah, it's late (right? I remember promising to post it up by some time or another...and I've totally passed it). I had to turn in my OTHER writing project, which was practically a gigantic, 50,000 word monster chewing on my brain for the past _two years_. I finished that and the essay I had to write for it, then suddenly--SURPRISE! I had to go to Florida for a week. I didn't write at all during that time, and then I had to come back and do all the make-up work... And y'know, I found out that I really, really missed Texas. And that I love it lots.

ANYWAY, with that completely unrelated rant, I have to ask the people who take the time to read this fic...who do you guys think should take the role of the "Jacob" character? That French guy from last chapter is out 'cause...well...you'll see. But give me some suggestions, seriously. In a review or something. I'll pick whoever gets the most tallies. I can't exactly go without this role because this IS a Twilight-remake, after all.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own the X-men.

_**--**_

_**CHAPTER **_**5:**

NIGHTTIME V I S I T A T I O N 

The rest of the night became a hazy blur. I remembered washing my face off and half-heartedly running a toothbrush over my teeth, but the rest seemed like a blank.

I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep and the next morning I felt like I'd woken up just five minutes later. I guess I'd traded in the insomnia for hangovers, because my head was foggy and swimming nauseatingly. It was like I'd spent the entire night knocking back shots of _vodka_. I stumbled out of my bed with the same amount of grace as a recovering drunk as well.

I hurried to the beige bathroom and hurled myself to the edge of the porcelain toilet. I dry-heaved several times, bile and thick saliva pushed up and out of my throat. My stomach was empty, though, so I had nothing to throw up. With my head in the toilet minutes later I was kind of wishing I _did _have something to vomit. It beat the pain of repeatedly choking up stomach acid, my hunger pains magnified by a thousand.

I wiped the spit that had gathered on the corner of my mouth bitterly, a strong sense of anger inexplicably taking hold of me. There went my fucking day... I tried to ignore the way the tiny room seemed to be whirling a thousand times a second and roughly brushed my teeth, banishing the awful taste that coated my tongue. Morning breath and bile didn't make for a particularly appetizing combination.

The water in the sink was tinted red when I was finished, and so was the head of my toothbrush. I glared at it in disgust, but my overpowering hunger was drawing me away from the bloody thing. I walked into the the kitchen, promising nobody in particular to wash it later.

The wood-paneled kitchen was empty. This was both a good and bad thing, considering my current attire of a black camisole and pink printed panties. But if nobody was in the house, this marked the fifth day in a row he had been gone, now. I tried to ignore the uncomfortable feelings niggling in my gut that could have passed as worry. Did he step out this much when I wasn't around, or was this a new development? Although he wasn't here when I was dumped off, I had thought it was just some kind of one-time thing like a work emergency or something.

Could something have happened to him?

For a second, I allowed myself to contemplate that scenario. The plausibility that my bad-luck charm abilities had finally killed him. How would he have died? Hit by a car? That was a possible situation. Although with the four mile long traffic jams in this city, it wouldn't have been fatal. Mugged? Again, with one of the highest crime rates in America, it wasn't impossible. My mind quickly conjured images of a bruised and pulpy Warren Worthington, lying face down in a murky puddle that was a mix of muddy water and his own blood.

My steady heartbeat faltered in my chest.

I forced myself to take a deep breath, pushing the bad feelings into a tiny corner of my brain where they wouldn't even be acknowledged until I fell asleep and my conscience ran wild. Right then, I focused on gulping some breakfast down before I passed out.

I stalked over to the white fridge, feet slapping against the numbingly cold floor. Either the house had really poor insulation or Worthington was a skin flint. Judging by the poor, sparse sources of lighting, the thin, brittle quality of the drywall, it wouldn't be hard to add "heating system" to the list of Things This House Sucked At. Not being used to such cold extremes in the south, I was naturally freezing.

Starving, freezing, sick neglected teenager. Gee, I must have had the best legal guardian ever. Somehow, despite these facts, he still had to be the best out of all the others before him.

Goosebumps breaking out all over my arms, I tore open the door to the fridge. My eyes scanned the lighted shelves for a carton of eggs or a jug of milk...

Nothing. There was nothing in the fridge except for a bottle of mustard and a stick of open butter stuck to the wall of the refrigerator. I groaned to myself, cursing vehemently at the fridge, the sticky, gross butter, and the innocent squeeze-bottle of mustard, simply for it being an obnoxious shade of yellow. My stomach rumbled loudly and only served to remind me needlessly of my body's deprivation. It looked like I'd have to do some serious grocery shopping tonight if I wanted to live on a food source other than the cheap fried shit dubbed "fast food."

I glanced at the kitchen stove's digital clock. It was just past ten o'clock, which meant that I could easily make a run to the grocery if I didn't... Didn't what? There was something that I knew I had to do right about now... My mind was swimming in an Alzheimer's fog, and, try as I might, I couldn't remember _anything_.

And then I saw the overstuffed violet backpack that was lying in an unassuming fashion against the front door's frame. This time, my frustration came out in a single word.

"Fuck."

x x x x x x

I arrived at Stuyvesant half an hour later, thanks to my newly acquired drunken stupor. I was seriously beginning to consider the idea of that Remy guy drugging my food, what with my sudden and worsened condition. The explanation certainly would have explained a _lot _of things, such as my odd and out-of-character moments last night, as well as my utter listlessness and lethargy after the drug wore off. The vomiting, the headaches, it all fit. Except that I couldn't think of one good reason _why _or even, for that matter, _how _he would have done it.

I didn't see him slip anything onto my food or drink, and I had my eyes pretty much glued to his handsome face all night long. That, and the fact still remained that I was relatively untouched. I mean, apart from that stunt that occurred in the diner (that I regrettably instigated) and a cheeky comment about "nippy weather" in the car ride home, there was _nothing_. No inappropriate touching, no leading me into black alleys, not even a mildly suggestive comment.

It made me wonder if he was some kind of nut, that he really _was _telling the truth about taking me to dinner because I looked bored. What other reason could he possibly have to take me out?

I pondered this fact as I stared up at the tall ceiling of the school's hallway. Light was finally filtering in, and I felt unused to coming in to full sunshine as opposed to arriving when it was still half-dark outside. I would have been home to see it, too, if I didn't have that fucking math test today...that had a heavy hand in the semester grade... Hell, that and I was pretty sure that I'd skipped six out of the fifteen days of school we'd had already. It wasn't that I was eager to get the perfect four point average, but I didn't want to be a flunkie, either. I wanted to go to collage when I got out of here, and flunkies didn't get accepted to collage.

Although I was over two hours late, I hadn't seen anyone in the hall when I burst through the side entrance so I was in the clear. Well,until I ran smack-dab into someone. The hard body sent me sprawling gracelessly on a floor that was cold, hard, and painful. And instantly, I was angry.

"_Jesus Christ! _Fuckin' _watch _where yah're—" I stopped my impending rant mid-sentence after I realized that I was staring into a face that had shades and a deep frown. I laughed awkwardly.

"Shit."

x x x x x x

"Sit over there, Ms. Worthington," demanded the angry-looking Scott Summers. His finger was pointed towards a single chair in the corner of the office. Just to be an ass, I walked over to the opposite corner of the room and stood. I heard him sigh exasperatedly behind me. I was seriously tempted to show him to my middle finger.

He had brought me to the front office, where I assumed the principal was located. I didn't know because, surprisingly, I hadn't been escorted there until now. I scoped out the area. It was the same reception desk I remembered from my first day: plain, uninspired modern décor that was washed over with a sterile white. A thick counter rose out of the marbled floor to create a partition between the desktop computers and the rest of the space. The same two stuck up secretaries were busy typing away behind said counter, and, based on their furious typing and disinterested glazes I guessed that they were on AIM.

They failed to notice (or care) that I'd been dragged into the room. Summers was leaning against one of the white walls, giving off an aura like that of some sort of heroic soldier at-ease. He was casually examining his nails through the thick darkness of his glasses, something that I have never seen him take off, but it made me wonder. Sunglasses? Inside? _Really?_

As I was scrutinizing Summers, the glass-paneled door next to me was shoved open. I stepped out of the way as a black-haired guy lazily slouched through the entry. He was pale, skinny, and, recognizing him instantly, I suppressed my groan. Following directly behind him was a teacher that looked like she hadn't been laid in years.

Her red hair was cut in a severe fashion, paired with sharp features, an old-fashioned suit and a permanent frown etched onto her face. She had few wrinkles around her eyes in the form of a deep crevice between her eyebrows. The lines cutting through her pursed lips said that she was—or had been—a heavy smoker. These flaws were all caked in a heavy amount of concealer and lipstick, though, as if she was trying to soften the hard edges of her face. It made her look like an evil clown. Or Michael Jackson.

Her sharp gray eyes seemed to seek out Summers, and a thinly plucked eyebrow was raised in question. He smiled, pulled himself from his session with the wall and launched into a conversation that I couldn't hear from across the room. Several times, their heads turned in my direction. They were obviously talking about me. I sighed, resigning my gaze to the tile in front of me, counting the specks that were strewn across the marble. I was on speck number thirty-two when I was rudely interrupted by a waving hand in front of my face.

Annoyed, I looked up to glare at the intrusion, coming face-to-face with Jean-Paul's mischievously twinkling eyes. He was smiling again in that overly-bright, eager way with a small edge of sarcasm: a twist to his lips that I had not previously seen. Right now, it made him appear more bitter than malicious, probably for the fact that he was hauled in here just like I was.

"So, what brings you 'ere?" he whispered conspiratorially. I scowled.

"Ah dunno. Summahs over there jus' dragged me by the arm without aneh apparent explanation, right aftah knockin' me straight to the groun'," And then my eyes narrowed suspiciously. "...why am Ah talkin' ta ya, anehway?"

Jean-Paul shot me a speculative glance. "Well, seeing az we arr both _stuck _here, at least for now, why not?" I made a face. He had a point, and I rebutted it using my standard line of defense.

"Whatevah," I muttered dismissively.

I crossed my arms over my chest. He leaned his upper back against the wall behind us. I attempted to reiterate my staring at the tile, but it was to no avail. Curiosity got the better of me. I ducked my head, surveying the guy next to me discreetly, rolling around the words I wanted to ask on my tongue.

Jean-Paul gave me a smile that didn't reach his eyes, catching the interest I was trying to hide. "Mz. Rodrick caught me skipping her class behind ze building." The brunette breathed an angry laugh, bobbing his head towards the harsh woman chatting on the other side of the room. "'s also my second time caught smoking."

I didn't know what to say, so I settled with a noncommittal "Ah," folding my arms behind me and leaning to rest on the wall. A small silence passed between us, and I found myself looking over at the two conversing teachers at the reception desk. Summers was running a hand through his brown hair with an embarrassed smile, shifting his feet awkwardly as Ms. Rodrick's face spasmed into a fierce look. Just _what _were they talking about?

Jean-Paul's face swiveled towards mine, and I had a vague sense of his eyes searching my body intently in my peripheral vision. It was weird; I wasn't wearing anything strange or out of the norm. After my rushed shower, I could barely spare time to pick up my green sweater from last night and throw on a pair of jeans. With the way things were going, though, I was probably going to miss half of math anyway. And then I would have to take a make-up test. I gritted my teeth. _Why _didn't I just stay home?!

...He was still staring at me. Or rather, at a spot on my leg. I was just about to tell him what for when his hand reached towards my pants.

"What the hell are yah—?!" I started off in an anguished whisper. He cut me off with a hushing noise. The brunette's hand withdrew with a flourish, and I felt a previously unnoticed pressure leaving my pocket. Jean-Paul was brandishing a packet of nicotine gum that looked oddly familiar...

"Hey! Where'd you get that?!" I cried in surprise. He shushed me with a finger, motioning to the pair of eyes that were now glancing our way in disapproval.

"Quiet, _Marie. _'t waz in your pocket," the blue-eyed boy breathed with a bright smile. I crossed my arms.

"Yeah, well, yah don' hafta violate mah leg ta get some gum," I grumbled. I was sure that the square of gum came from that guy last night, but I didn't remember at all him placing it in my pocket. Hell, I wasn't even _wearing _these jeans yesterday!

The increasing gaps in my usually infallible memory were unsettling me. I could barely recall my first night in New York, last night was quickly becoming hazy, and just now... The only thing that really stuck out in my mind were a pair of glowing eyes, but already I wasn't sure if they were real or a product of my imagination. It didn't seem too implausible, especially with the way my life had been spinning out of control lately. The frown on my face deepened, and Jean-Paul immediately took my expression in reaction to his feeling me up.

He threw up his hands. _"J__ésus-Christ! Votre moi est énorme_**(1)**! I waz _not _trying to molest you, woman!"

Seeing that I'd somehow pissed him off, I gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, yeah?"

It was the first real time I'd seen him so frustrated. The sight was almost comical, really. Usually he had some semblance of a smile around his mouth. Because of that, I felt some sociopathic urge to push him farther. He was already getting much too close for comfort.

"_Yes._ _Mon Dieu, _you women are all ze same," he huffed angrily, looking away. "...et anyway...I am _not _interested in _you." _

"Awww," I teased mercilessly. "Are yah gay?"

He blushed, coughing awkwardly and ducking away from my eyes.. It took me a minute to catch on.

"What?! Realleh?" Jean-Paul didn't answer, still furiously examining the floor. His face looked like it would spontaneously burst into flames. I choked back a gasp. And then suppressed the incredible compulsion to giggle.

"But that—"

"Ms. Worthington!" Mr. Summers' voice interrupted me, attempting to sound sharp. My line of sight turned to him. An eyebrow was raised, his hand beckoning me like I was a small child. I glared at him, but walked over nonetheless. I passed by the two receptionists and the bitchy-looking Ms. Roderick. Summers walked before me, leading the way down the white hall.

As I plodded monotonously behind him, my thoughts were wildly focused on something else. The revelation to Jean-Paul's sexuality came as a weird, unexpected surprise, but the constant nibbling on my conscience was certainly caused by the combined facts of Worthington's extended absence and my recent inability to remember _anything, _from minute things like where I'd placed my backpack to major things, such as questioning whether or not I'd even been fatally shot that night, whether the whole thing was just one big _dream. _

Suddenly, I felt very drained. Thinking about the memories caused me to attempt to pull them out of my brain, which they just refused to do. It was sickening, drawing blank after blank like an Alzheimer's patient. My throat buzzed unpleasantly, much the same feeling as the one that had plagued me this morning. Nausea.

I closed my eyes, willing the dizzy swirl of images to stop, for this new topsy-turvy world to right itself to normality. Red, the color of the blood that pumped behind my eyes, filled my sight. I was sure that I was going to pass out, seeing with disjointed vision as my legs gave out underneath me. A large hand gripped my shoulder and I vaguely heard my name being called as if from underwater.

In my peripheral view that wasn't the floor, a pair of sunglasses were aimed concernedly at me. Summers was asking a question that seemed a jumble of words under the sound of my hyperventilating, then calling my name again urgently. My stomach rumbled dangerously.

And then, right before receding into unconsciousness, I threw up all over him.

x x x x x x

When I finally resurfaced, I was looking up at a ceiling tinged yellow with what looked like water damage. But it could very well have been the spots dancing before my eyes. It took a few seconds for my vision to clear from the blurriness that came with being unconscious but when it did, I surveyed my surroundings. I was sprawled on a paper-sheeted leather cot with someone's jacket draped over me. The heater was on at full-blast, so I felt distinctly sweaty under the fleece coat. My nose wrinkled. I also smelled like bile.

I had to blink dumbly several times before I could remember what had put me here in the first place. With the memory of vomiting all over the teacher with a serious case of stick-up-his-ass, I smiled. The rest of my body ached, felt hot and cold all at once, and practically begged for a shower. My head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and my throat was suddenly as water-depleted as Death Valley. I _had_ to be sick.

Well, that was just great_. _I _knew _I should have stayed home today. Fucking math test.

I swallowed, and the endeavor was a challenge akin to climbing Mount Everest. I looked around for some water for my dry throat.

The room was pretty much bare, except for a mini-fridge and a black desk, both pushed against the wall opposite me. Over the fridge was a plastic pitcher, half-full with lemonade that was so cold it was sweating. I knew that the icy temperature of the drink, or any drink that wasn't warm was going to end up hurting my throat even more, but I was just _so thirsty_.

I righted myself and slid off the bed, feeling an instant but expected rush of heady vertigo. As soon as my feet touched the ground, the door next to the desk was flung open, and an angry-looking woman rushed in.

She was just the average nurse-type, looking more like a disgruntled mom than any kind of medically certified professional. And she looked severely PO'd.

"_There _you are, finally awake. What did you eat this morning, dog meat? Or maybe you're suffering from withdrawal. God knows how many junkies there are in this trashy school." The frown on her face deepened as she accused me. Her flabby skin looked purple.

"Ah'm _not _a junkeh, thank yah vereh much," I attempted to growl. I still wasn't even sure I could see straight. Maybe the orange juice I'd gulped down had come in contact with the mayonnaise or something. But then again, I'd had this cloudy-head feeling since yesterday.

"Must've been the dog meat, then," she replied simply, completely unfazed by my wobbly condition. I repressed the desire to vomit all over this infuriating woman like I did with Summers. Speaking of...

"Where's Summahs?"

The nurse glared at me from her point at the metal desk. "You vomited all over him. Or don't you remember, Ms. Tennessee?"

"Mississippi," I found myself grumbling. The woman settled her ambiguous, scrub-clad body into a cheap wheelie chair. It squeaked.

"But where is he?"

"He went home to get a fresh change of clothes about an hour ago. The poor man," the blonde nurse cooed. I thought that she only looked sorry for him because he could pass for attractive. I was too overwhelmed with dizziness to say anything.

"What am Ah still doin' here? Dontcha hafta send all o' the faintin' kids ta the hospital or somethin'?" I distinctly remembered witnessing a kid being carried out of my old school on a gurney after he'd passed out. Maybe the health laws were different in New York or something.

"Your father was supposed to pick you up forty five minutes ago. Or at least that's what he said when we called him up. He also protested any hospital treatments, which is why I'm here, stuck with you."

That got me thinking about Worthington. What the hell was he so busy with that he couldn't pick me up? And what did he have against a hospital? Where was he for the past _week?_

"How long have Ah been out?" I asked, after a beat of silence.

"An hour and a half. Scott has already gone back to teaching classes," the blonde woman replied sullenly, bending over something unseen on her desk. I nodded to myself, then quietly settled back down.

Somehow, I drifted off to sleep again.

x x x x x x

I awoke from yet another light, dreamless state of unconsciousness, this time tucked snugly into a thick den of cotton blankets and fluffy pillows. The light that reached my bleary eyes was a dim hue of blue, which my brain processed as the light in a sky that was about to turn black. My throat was considerably sticky and my head felt detached, but anything was better than the aching hangover I had started the day with.

I summoned the strength to turn my face around. The table pushed up next to the bed was something familiar to me. I glanced around the white space. I was in my own room.

I sat up silently in the covers, my movements a lonely whisper in the abandoned house. My skin had the feeling of sweat that had just cooled as I bent over the side and scrambled onto the carpeted floor. My school clothes were rumpled and damp, but I was thankful that whoever had brought me here didn't take away my privacy and undress me. I padded into the kitchen.

A strange smell hit my nostrils as I neared the granite surfaces. I stood in front of the oven and noticed that the inner light was left on. I bent at the waist and opened the door.

Inside was a tray stacked with what looked like freshly-cooked food. It seemed to be a main course of steaming pot roast, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, gravy, and bread rolls. The amount of food set out appeared to be set for three people. Suddenly, my hunger pangs hit me at full force. I greedily pulled the ceramic out of the oven and set it down on the island, not even bothering to pull up a chair as I wolfed the meal.

After I felt the food go down, my stomach pain all but vanished. I was just about to dump the rest of the roast in the fridge when I noticed a sheaf of white, nestled underneath the rims of the blue china plates. Curious, I lifted the paper up and unfolded it. I gasped.

Once again, the message was written in the cursive scrawl that had adorned my back. And, again, it was simple. Short. One word, actually.

_**Sorry**_

My nose scrunched in confusion. "_Sorry?" _For what?! And who the fuck was stalking me like this, anyway?! A wave of hot anger and disbelief zapped through my system.

I could feel rumbling in my lower abdomen. The thought of some strange man cooking the food I'd just eaten made me feel like barfing it all back up. If it wasn't Worthington who'd put this here, then who did?

I slammed the tray in frustration. A plate broke. I cursed. Then I ripped open the drawer by the sink and combed through the silverware until I pulled out the plastic card purposely stashed there for "emergencies," the same I'd used for shopping half a month ago. I jerked on a pair of tennis shoes over my socks and returned to the kitchen once more to grab the car keys that were over the fridge.

I was going grocery shopping. Right _now. _

I ran a hand through my messy hair, violently yanked the door open, and stomped out onto the stoop. The blue light that had shone through my window had rapidly turned to the orange-yellow of the streetlights, the black, smog-streaked sky retaining no luminescence itself.

The air was bitingly cold, but I ignored the feeling and quickly clambered into the silver Mazda parked unassumingly on the limited driveway. It was a grocery run. I'd be in and out, barely even spending five minutes outside. I could survive without a jacket. I backed the car out of the space and onto the blackened road, promising myself to just pick up the foodstuffs from the first grocery-selling store I came across.

Five minutes later, I turned into the parking space outside one Lucky's General Store, cursing my dumb luck that _this_ place happened to be the _first grocery store _I ran into. Regardless, I turned off the ignition, pocketed the car keys, and walked briskly into the store.

It had the look of every corner grocery: slightly beat up, with a flickering fluorescent strip here and there above aisles in disarray from tightfisted customers rifling through products for the cheapest alternative. It was like the gas station back home. And if that was the case, I'd have no problems here. I swiped a shopping basket from next to the door and walked directly to the line of fridges holding the dairy products and energy drinks. First on my mental list: milk and eggs. Then it was the cereal, soup cans, and bread.

I knew that I wouldn't find any kind of fruit or other healthful stuff like that in the small store, so I collected just enough to live on for the next week or so. I headed to the checkout, loaded red basket in hand and pulling the slick card out of my jeans pocket.

There were only two checkouts in the store, so I headed to the empty second one. I didn't look up until I'd set the basket onto the small checkout counter, but the person behind the register made me cringe. A bleached bottle blonde chewed gum obnoxiously as she rang up my purchases, completely oblivious to the surge of immediate dislike that was most likely written all over my face. She was that girl leaning over the table, flirting outrageously with that Cajun yesterday as he bought Nicorette...

It almost surprised me that I felt such strong ill feelings towards this girl when I'd never even met her. She met my green eyes with a pair of wide, attractive brown ones and a polite smile. The clerk girl looked to be in her early to mid twenties, and wasn't at all bitchy or rude which only bothered me further about my impression of her.

I swallowed and handed her the credit card. She in turn slid it through a slot, punched a few buttons, and began gathering the food and placing them in plastic bags. Handing them to me with the receipt and credit card, a light "have a nice day," was thrown in my direction. I grumbled something rude and unheard under my breath and hurried back outside.

I quickly opened the trunk and shoved the plastic bags in the spotless space, slamming the cover with more force than necessary. Then I flung open the driver's door and plunked harshly onto the leather of the seat. I didn't even realize that I was holding my breath until it was being pressure-spewed from my lungs. I leaned weakly over the steering wheel, wondering what the hell had just happened.

And then I felt a small tap on my shoulder.

I spun around in my seat, fists balled and mouth agape, my body already reacting on curious instinct.

Slouched against the back of the seats was Remy. His coat was askew, brown hair tussled and mussed like he'd been caught in a mini tornado. The fact that a stranger was occupying the space of my car, uninvited and in close quarters was not what made me give a frightened yell and jump out of the car.

It was the fact that his shirt was torn in several places, showing the bronzed skin beneath. Skin that was dyed a rich burgundy and dotted with swollen, leaking holes.

Gunshot wounds.

x x x x x x

**Translations:**

**(1) _"Jésus-Christ! Votre moi est énorme!"_: Jesus Christ! Your ego is enormous!**

I know this seemed like kind of a filler chapter, but it totally wasn't. I promise. I would _never _write twenty pages of bullshit. Unlike Stephenie's "the DSL connection was reeeealllly slow as I searched for vampire myths, so I went into the kitchen and ate my father, yadda yadda yadda."

Drop me a Jacob :)


	7. Operation

A.N./ I'm pretty sure this chapter sucks. It's completely, insanely unrealistic, so I expect nitpicking. The only good part, I think, is the line: "I accepted the bread, laying it like a blanket on the peachy faces of my eggs." Yum.

Anyways, the Jacob results are in! Two of you guys said I didn't even need a Jacob...but then two more asked for Pyro.

Ohhh, joyyyy. An Aussie accent for me to scratch my head over, hahahaha.

Me, I'm still not sure on what I'm going to do, so I might just ask the friend I dedicated this to on her opinion.

_**CHAPTER **__**6**_**:**

O P E R A T I O N

"Drive," was all he said.

And he rasped it in such a light, strained voice so unlike the deep timbre he'd had last. The lids over his ruby eyes were low, eclipsing the unnatural light usually exuded by them. A thin film of sweat lit his blood-drained face like a plastic film stretched over skin, providing a starkly contrasted canvas to the blood splattered all over his clothes and now, Worthington's painfully clean car interior.

I was still standing, legs apart, fists balled outside of the vehicle. He appeared close to death and I was about to attack him. What might have happened if I _had _struck out at him had me in wide-eyed panic.

After a pause, I nodded mutely at his request and braced my hand on the edge of the door, about to swing myself in when I felt a sharp pain shoot through my finger. In a daze, I brought the appendage to my face, barely able to make out the small bead of blood that had gathered on my fingertip. Not even pain held that much of an impact when I was so badly shaken up as this.

I absently sucked the blood off and repositioned myself before the steering wheel. I dug the keys from my pocket clumsily, missing the ignition slot several times because of my shaking hands. As the engine started up, I slammed my hands on the steering wheel, gripping it so hard that the skin was turned a bone-white in the gaps of my fingerless gloves. However, feeling the hard power of my muscles working helped calm me a little.

I cursed silently, then asked in a surprisingly calm voice, "Aneh particular place we're goin'?"

I was almost afraid that Remy wouldn't answer in his battered state, that I'd have to take him to Worthington's place. And then we'd somehow get closer, walking away as friends...if that happened, if he ever got too close to me, he was as good as dead. Hell, I might as well have just dumped his wounded body on the side of the road, or drive him to a hospital somewhere. Only I didn't know where any were.

"Jus' tell meh where the hospital is," I quickly amended.

"No!" I jumped at the snarled protestation. A painful-sounding groan followed shortly after. Even talking was a strain.

"Why not? Yah some kinda criminal or—" I ducked my head back to make eye contact with him as I interrogated him, but I immediately clammed up again. The image of his body after someone played target practice with him was enough to remind me that he was _in no condition_. That I should have just done what the poor man said. He couldn't exactly pull anything that I couldn't easily get out of in his current state. And he'd already proved to me once before that he meant me no harm.

"Give meh some directions," I mumbled quietly, bent over the wheel with it once again tightly grasped in my hands.

"Off of...I street...take a left a' the...nex' ligh'...an' then the second righ'. Big apar'men' buildin'...numbah fo'..." His words were barely annunciated, breathed out with each labored gulp of air he took. He was going to go under, fast.

I quickly pulled the car in reverse and out onto the street, hoping to God that no errant cop would catch me in the intense speeding offense I was about to commit. I didn't have a license, and with a close-to-dying man bleeding all over the place, it certainly wouldn't have looked very good. I hunched further against the wheel, pushing my tennis shoe against the gas urgently and keeping my head craned for the turning for I street. It would have been located in the downtown area, I knew that. But I hadn't really ever navigated the sprawl of skyscrapers and corporate complexes that made up this part of the city. Hopefully, I street would have been located just after H street.

As I passed what seemed like twenty street markers, the panic that I'd just wrestled under control threatened to bubble up again. My hands were lubricated with unbelievable amounts of sweat; both were numb from the amount of pressure I was exerting on the hard wheel.

Suddenly, there it was. I street. I made a hard left, actually feeling the tires screech and drag alarmingly underneath the car. Impulsively, I glanced back to see if my careless driving skills had somehow disturbed Remy. The only signs of life from him was the twitching of an eyelid. I floored it.

x x x x x x

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of the opening to the passenger seats, looking frantically between the bleeding body of a sure-to-be heavy, six-foot-something tall man and the high, shining white walls of the apartment building he'd given me directions to. I wrung my fidgety hands in utter indecision.

What the hell did he expect me to do? Cart him through the front door, incapacitated and leaking all over the place?

Ignoring the overwhelming stench of blood, sweat, and something unidentifiable that wafted off of his body, I gently prodded the man. He slumped further down the leather, leaving a rather grotesque fan of liquid where his back had been. I poked him again.

"Hey, Swamp Rat. Wake up," I whispered. No dice. I bit my lip, surveyed the area for any witnesses, then placed both of my hands on his shoulders and gave a shake.

"Wake up! C'mon... Wake up, Remy!" Again, nothing other than an involuntary movement of his arm. I swore nervously under my breath. I was no doctor. Why didn't he want me to just take him to a hospital? He was seriously hurt!

After a moment of dangerous deliberation, I cursed finally and gave in. I placed one of my arms behind his back and tugged. It took several moments for me to drag his body partially out of the vehicle. He was too heavy for any stair-climbing, but I was sure that I could at least deposit him in the closest room to the door. Steeling myself, I looped my arms under his armpits and gave a strong heave. Remy's limp form was supported entirely on me the second he was out of the car, and I fought to keep from buckling under the slab of solid weight. Then, I began my walk backwards to the entry of the building. It was only a couple of easy steps but each awkward shuffle was an incredible struggle.

My back felt the smooth hardness of the entry door. I hesitated, then tilted his body in a way that would allow me easy access to his jacket. Balancing his weight, I shoved a hand into a deep pocket, rifling around for a set of keys. There was nothing of value, not even a wallet.

With a muffled groan, I shifted him to my other shoulder and checked his second pocket. Nothing but a small bit of folded paper, one that was admittedly worn around its edges. I hastily drew back and pulled out Worthington's credit card. If he didn't carry around a key to his own apartment, what else did he expect me to do besides break in?

I quickly unlocked the door, kicking it open wider. I didn't bother closing it behind me. I could already feel some of his sticky blood seeping through my thick sweater. It made me hurry to get him to a level area where I could attempt to treat him.

The building was eerily quiet when I stepped inside. There were few, if any, windows, so it was practically pitch black. I strained to hear anyone—or anything—but it appeared derelict. The only sounds that reached my ears were the echoes of my heavy breaths and blended footfalls. Remy's breathing was hardly there at all. If it wasn't there, shallow and gripping, in my ear, I would've felt like I was carrying a dead man.

I swallowed my trepidation and walked further into the entry. There was some sort of parlor as an offshoot to the entry, or at least that was what I gathered from stumbling over plush chairs in the dark. I shot out a hand and located what seemed like a long sofa. Carefully, I lowered the body onto the soft surface. Then I felt along the walls for a light panel. If there was no way to illuminate the area, then he was dead.

Luckily, there was. My blind fingers came in contact with a piece of raised plastic. I pressed it. The light that suddenly sparked to life was bright against my eyes. I blinked dazedly before turning around, mentally preparing myself for the full extent of Remy's injuries.

His hair, more red than brown in the gold-tinted light, was matted to his head with both sweat and blood. His face was a pallid, stone white from all of the blood loss; his eyelids being a shade lighter with the force he was shutting them. My eyes scanned down the pillar of his neck to where I knew the worst of the injuries were. From my distance away, I couldn't see the grisly particulars, but I counted three gray holes that glistened in little pools of thick liquid. Three bullets that I had to pull out.

My hands shook as I approached the plum-colored chaise, side-stepping the other overstuffed armchairs and pointedly ignoring the red stains that dragged along the expensive Persian carpet. Standing over his body, I found myself at an impasse.

What did I do first? I closed my eyes briefly, thinking hard. _Operation, this is just like Operation,_ I said to myself to calm down and think rationally.

Of course, the only time I'd ever played that game was almost two years ago, when I'd sneak over to Bobby's house. It became increasingly more difficult for us to just sit and talk _normally_, as if there wasn't a gigantic elephant in the room called sexual tension. So, being the dork that he was, he broke out the board games. _Operation _was one of his favorites, although mostly because he would goad me into distraction as I was conducting the "surgery." I think I still had that somewhere, probably forgotten under the bed of my last house.

My heart ached. I shook my thoughts back into order, my green eyes once again looking over the tanned body. He was _filthy_. I needed to get him cleaned up before touching him.

I glanced around for the possible entrance to a bathroom or access to a sink. There was a sharp turn from the parlor, the flooring underneath the carpet melting into a glazed marble that dimmed into a dark hall. I followed the path, walking along the hall uncertainly. In the almost non-existent lighting, I saw an indent in the wall, presumably another hall. I ducked into it.

At the end of the hall was a small room. I flicked on a switch set into the wall, and found myself staring into a mirror with wide eyes. It was an intricately framed piece of glass, making my scraggly appearance seem unworthy of the glitz that encompassed it. The walls of the small room were an ambient gold, the sink just below the reflective surface a granite, polished black. A toilet bowl of the same material was fitted into the corner of the bathroom, and a shower occupied the space next to it. The tub was generously huge, wide enough to service as both a jacuzzi bathtub as well as a shower.

Suddenly, I had an idea.

x x x x x x

I stood above the smooth granite tub, carefully repositioning Remy's head above the rim. His head had to be turned away from the spray of the water if I didn't want to drown him. Then there was the issue of his clothes.

His khaki flak jacket looked heavy, and his simple shirt and jeans were already torn and bloodied beyond repair. I took a moment to shudder at the thought of what he must have run into as I attempted to tug the collar of his trench coat over his broad shoulders, exposing the tops of finely muscled arms. After a bit of a bit of struggling, the jacket came off. I tossed it carelessly behind me in a thick heap on the floor.

Next came his shirt. It was already torn in several places, so to save myself the trouble I just ripped along the seams until it parted, useless scraps of thin cloth left hanging onto his injured chest. I didn't want to move his chest around too much to disturb the wounds there, so I left it on, my gloved hands already in a frenzy over his jeans. I unzipped them easily enough, working them over Remy's slim hips, but I wasn't able to bring them past his knees. And for my own sake, I left his boxers untouched.

I pulled off my gloves. Then I turned the silver tap on medium heat and left a hand under the gushing spray of water to check the temperature as it heated up before turning the hose on the injured man. When I figured it was warm enough, I pulled the plug that would send the water jet to the sprayer head, watching mutely as each droplet landed on his head, drew in the particles of dirt and blood, and sent them in a river down his body. As soon as his torso was cleared, I turned off the shower. I placed his khaki jacket on his legs for warmth, then turned away from the bathtub and began rifling through the set of drawers under the sink.

Any decent bathroom would be equipped with a pair of tweezers, paper towels, and some sort of alcohol. I thought that even mouthwash was worth a try, though I knew next to nothing about treating injuries. I was relying on my common sense here. Hopefully, that would have been all I needed to rescue Remy.

In the end, all I could find was an unused toothbrush, a small bottle of exotic French cologne, and a pocket razor. I looked around helplessly at the mess of drawers and their contents that littered the marble floor, then snatched the roll of toilet paper that sat innocuously on the back of the toilet.

I twisted on the floor, materials balanced on the rim of the bathtub. Once again, the sight of his body caused me to flinch and panic.

What happened if the cologne wasn't strong enough and he got an infection? What happened if I accidentally severed an artery? What if—what if he _died?_

_Anna Marie, you better get a damn grip on yourself before you pass out on top of him_, I scolded myself angrily. The images behind my brain kept coming, though, and they were easy to picture: the man before me, dead. All he had to do was stop breathing, or lose just a little bit more blood. It would be so easy for that small bit of life in him to slip oh so silently away with me sitting here, agonizing over what-ifs and wringing my fingers pathetically.

Unexpectedly, the image of the broken, battered body of a young woman burned behind my retinas, an image that I knew well. The corners of my eyes stung and my dry throat ached. I fought down the urge to both gag and cry at the likeness between the two of them now, except one: I could choose to save him. I could choose to save Remy, where with Merry-Lewis, I was already too late.

I swiped up the razor in my palm, extending it with a tiny flick. Squeezing the flat, cool metal of the handle like a stress ball, I placed it back on the rim. I picked up the glass bottle of cologne, unscrewed the lid, and shook out several drops into my sweaty hands. Then I gently brought my hands down to the top of Remy's chest, just where his neck ended. He was still warm, and his skin felt soft but unyielding in a way that made me forget myself and flush. With light circles, I spread the spicy-smelling alcohol into his skin, applying more over his bullet holes until the room's air became the smell of cologne. He had three: one, off center and right next to his left shoulder; the second, just beneath his right nipple; and the third, one that looked to be embedded in his ribcage. The white of bone shone in a thin sliver next to the lead. I shivered, running my hands once more over the injuries.

He seemed to jerk involuntarily, twice. I took it as a good sign and armed myself with the razor. Once the blade was grasped in my hand, however, I hesitated. How did I go about this? Was it like pulling teeth, all quick and painful? Or did I have to go about it gently and work the lead balls out?

I stuck the sharp end of the knife into the hole closest to his shoulder, right between the bullet and skin. Using the flat metal as a lever, I pried out the object to have it rise and rest on the skin of his chest. He spasmed. I held him steady.

The same process repeated, again and again, until all three pieces of metal were laying flat on his skin. I unrolled the toilet paper and patted down the sweat that had broken out on his torso. I used up the rest of the cologne to clean up the little holes left behind.

Somehow, they seemed puckered, almost smaller. I brushed away the thought and attributed it to my fatigue.

I didn't know how long I'd been here, but in my mind it felt like hours. My back ached from bending over the bath tub and my neck and fingers were stiff with strain. I could feel the aching throb from earlier build up from behind my temples. I wanted to find somewhere to lie down and effectively pass out, but I felt some inexplicable responsibility for the unconscious man that tied to to where I was.

I sat back against the cabinet, desiring for at least a modicum of comfort. I braced myself for the long night, watching through half-lidded eyes Remy's peaceful body. I hoped he wasn't in a coma. I think that was my last thought before I gave in to sleep.

x x x x x x

My head was floating in nonsensical dreamland. That was all I could use to rationalize what I was seeing, or rather, the montage of images my brain was sending me. It was blurry; my vision seemed to wet. I was crying. The floor came up to meet me, but there was no pain, even as my cheek smashed against the ground. The sensation was light, a brief tickle against my bare skin. Somehow, I knew my jaw was broken.

The water in my eyes left me, little droplets plinking onto the floor to meet a sea of blood. I didn't have any control over my eyes as they slid around in their sockets. The glare of light on metal struck out at me. There was a shiny object laying next to my head, and my hand crawled pathetically to meet it.

I grasped the gun and where there should have been the icy coldness of metal in my grip, there was a strange warmth. I raised my hand and aimed surely. Then I pulled the trigger. The bullet flew precisely, shooting straight through the blue eye of Warren Worthington.

I woke up.

It was slow, not at all as dramatic as it should have been in the wake of such a violent nightmare. My eyes pried themselves open with lethargic sluggishness. I blinked several times, staring at a creamy ceiling. My head felt so much better, free of any swollen pain, cushioned on something soft. A pillow? I moved a leg. It slid across some smooth, uninterrupted plane, covered in what I thought was a thick blanket. I sat up quickly, looking around.

The walls were painted with an expensive looking cream glaze that offset the same ivory marble that made up the floor of the room. I was lying in a humongous bed. There were massive amounts of comforters piled on top of my body, all contributing to the unusual amount of warmth I felt. I heard the lazy whips of blades coming from the white fan hanging above the bed, but that seemed like the only appliance in the room. Although it was spacious, the place was devoid of any furniture other than the black, four-post bed.

Cautiously, I picked off the heavy layers of blanket from my form and stepped out of the bed. My feet were taken out of their sneakers and socks, bare and sticky against the cold stone. I peered down at myself, only to find that my clothes were off, too; at least, my shirt was. I was once again clad in a strappy camisole as I paraded around a guy's house. Or was I even still at the apartment building?

"Remy?" I called out uncertainly. No reply. I tried again, slightly louder. I thought I heard something clang in another corner of the building, but no real response met me. I walked out of the doorway, poking my head into the hall. It looked just like the half-lit passage from last night: white, wide, and marbled. I wasn't entirely sure I was in the same wing, though...

I thought I could hear a faint crackling noise along the same area that the metal clang came from. I followed it. As I walked towards the source of the noise, a heavy, flavorful smell filled my nostrils; a smell that I associated with frying bacon. There was another doorway to the left, and I silently glanced inside.

The small room was, again, furnished spaciously, but whatever little had been installed there were mostly kitchen appliances: a large chrome refrigerator, a small cooking stove, a microwave/oven combo, and just barely enough counter-top room to chop vegetables next to a polished sink. A large, clear window let cheery white sunlight into the space. I squinted my eyes against the harsh light, suddenly noticing the figure that had just stepped into the main space of the kitchen.

There stood Remy, clad in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, moving about like absolutely _nothing _was wrong. He was grasping the handle of a frying pan and walking towards the stove, gripping two eggs in his other hand. There was a sort of cheery jaunt in his step that matched the slightly familiar tune he whistled. He didn't seem to notice me. My eyes bugged.

"What the hell are yah doin'?!" I demanded in alarm, stalking over to him and impetuously tearing the frying pan from his grasp. I slammed the pan on the nearest surface, took him by the arm, and began attempting to lead him back to the bedroom I'd just come out of.

"Whoa, _chere. _Dontcha wan' to have some breakfast before we hop into bed?" he asked, a damn grin plastered all over his mouth. I realized that I wasn't succeeding in moving him an inch. And that my skimpily clad torso was pressed into his incredibly warm, incredibly toned chest... I felt heat rise to my face as I dropped his arm like it was diseased.

"Ugh, if yah realleh can joke like that, then yah're fine, an' Ah'm leavin'." I scowled, walking towards the door frame. I didn't know how to get out of here, but maybe I could wander around until I found the door?

"Hol' on. Have some breakfast," he all but ordered. My stomach chose that precise moment to growl thunderously. I spun around in embarrassed anguish, only to see his bright smile with the words _"I-told-you-so" _written all over it. My eyes traveled over his form, really studying his wounds for the first time. His tanned body was propped cockily against the wall, sculpted arms folded over equally muscular chest. I looked at him questioningly underneath my lashes. His unusual eyes seemed taken aback, but he made no move towards or away from me.

I stepped forward and watched as my hand made the contact with his tight skin. There was that odd, unsettling flutter of my stomach and the daze in my brain that made the situation dreamlike, unreal. The color of my skin was light against his, and the texture was smooth and hot on my palm. I ran my hand demurely down his clavicle and into the hollow beneath his neck, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on his chest, not daring to meet whatever could be on his face. My fingers around skated what was left of the hole around his shoulder, never once touching the sensitive scar.

"That's strange," I murmured to myself, craning my head to get a closer look at the healing wound. I could feel his hot breaths, warming my ear and very slightly disturbing a few strands of my hair.

"...What is?" he said, with what sounded like difficulty. My gaze darted down to his hand which looked like it was about to crush the two eggs clenched in it. I met his gaze with a frown.

"The injuries...they're almost healed. It's like yah got wounded _months _ago, maybe even a year." I shook my head. Remy stepped away from me hastily, picking up the frying pan from earlier and turning his back to face the stove.

"Dat's weird," he agreed lightly. I stared at him, wondering how the hell he could take gunshot wounds and their subsequent disappearances so lightly. It reminded me of something. I leaned back against the counter, trying to peer into his face. He looked expressionless, almost like he was blocking any trace of emotion from making an appearance.

Remy emptied the contents of the eggs into the pan, the heat causing it to fizzle and crack. I pulled myself off of the granite and glanced down at my rumpled clothes, frowning to myself. I knew I was forgetting something. Then I looked down at the whitening eggs in the pan.

"Ah, shit." My hand flew to my forehead. Remy gave me a sideways glance.

"Ah forgot mah groceries. Damn..." My shoulders slumped.

"_Non_,"

I glanced at his back. "Huh?"

"I put dem in my fridge dis mornin'. An' I also drove de car back..."

"What?! What d'ya mean yah drove the car back?" I stared at the cowlick that was sticking up on the back of his head. He obviously wasn't going to turn around any time soon.

"I took it back," he said simply. "It wasn' yours, righ'? So, I drove it back t' where your house was." Remy ducked away from me with the frying pan, still avoiding eye-contact as he headed towards a cabinet and pulled out a plate.

I gaped at him incredulously. "Where d'ya get the right ta jus' take mah stuff?"

He was shaking the two eggs onto the china. "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, _chere_, but dat wasn' even _your _car to begin wit'." I could tell by his tone that he was struggling with his patience. I shook my head.

How the FUCK did he even know that to begin with?

"'Sides," he muttered, pinching what I assumed was salt and spreading it on the food. "I couldn' have jus' left those bloodstains." Remy picked up the plate and deposited it gently on the square island in the middle of the kitchen. Then he pulled open the handle of a shiny cabinet (a fridge?) and brought out a loaf of bread, one I recognized as the brand that I bought last night. He caught me watching it and offered a slice with a half-lift of his mouth.

"Sorry; don' have a toaster."

I accepted the bread, laying it like a blanket on the peachy faces of my eggs.

"What, yah're not gonna eat?" I asked, just as Remy walked over to another cupboard and brought me a fork. I pulled out the barstool under the island table and plopped onto it.

"Why, you wan' me to spoon-feed you, _petit?" _His voice was teasing, but his expression made him look so _tired_. Although his body seemed to be in perfect working order, there was a certain slackness to his movements, like he'd just performed an Olympic feat and now had to deal with incredibly sore muscles. It was something I'd just noticed, but only because he was trying so hard to hide it.

"Remy?" I asked quietly, stabbing my eggs with the silver fork tines in an effort to avoid his clear, strange gaze. "What realleh happened last night?"

A long pause ensued. I looked up, only to find that same closed-off, painfully blank expression on his face. It was hard to believe that he was smiling just seconds ago. Instantly, my little, now muted alarm flared. Somehow, I'd asked the wrong question, and now he looked just a little pissed off. He turned away from me, walking down the room to stop right before the doorway.

"...are you almos' finished wit' your breakfas'?"

I blinked, glanced at my barely-touched food and answered: "Yeah."

"Good," Remy replied in a hard voice. "Because now you have to leave."

He left the room. I concentrated on swallowing my eggs over the bad feeling that swelled in my stomach.

x x x x x x

Not much French here, mostly 'cause I wrote it all in Chem. class. -_-'

Alas, we get to see a bit of the (dark? mysterious?) Remy. Well, at least I was _aiming _for his dark/mysterious side...you guys can tell me how that worked out. We're just at the beginning of this story, folks, and I actually have a -GASP- plot! And it's (thankfully) nothing at all like Twilight, so my original intention may or may not pan out with this. But what do you guys care if it's a Twilight remake? You get a Romy fic!

Review! It makes the chapters come faster!


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